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THE  LffiRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


prUi68 

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1875 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


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THE    LIFE 


OF 


CHARLOTTE    BRONTE. 


4^ 


THE    LIFE        !_ 


v 


CHARLOTTE    BRONTE, 

ATJTnOR   OF  \.    '2 

"  JANE  EYRE,"  "  SHIRLEY,"  "  VILLETTE,"  &n 

E.    C.    GASKELL, 

AUTHOR     OF      *'MARY     BARTON,"    *'RUTH,    '     KTO. 


"Oh  my  God,  ' /^ /  J  Y 

■  ITion  hast  knowledge,  only  Tho:i,  ; 


How  dreary  'tis  for  women  to  sit  still 

On  winter  nights  by  solitary  fires 

And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off/' 

AcKOEA  Leigh. 


TWO  VOLS.  COMPLETE  I^^  ONE. 


VOL.  I. 


NEW  TOEK: 
D.    APPLETON^    AND    COMPANY, 

549    &    551    BROADWAY. 

1875. 


OONTEKTS   OF  VOL.  T, 


CHAPTER  I. 
Description  of  Keighley  and  its  neighbourhood— Haworth  Parsonage 
and  Church — Tablets  of  the  Bronte  family,  .  .  .1 

CHAPTER  II. 

Characteristics  of  Yorkshiremen — Manufactures  of  the  West  Riding — 
Descendants  of  the  Puritans — A  characteristic  incident — Former 
state  of  the  country — Isolated  country  houses — Two  Yorkshire 
squires — Rude  sports  of  the  people — Rev.  William  Grimshaw,  Cu- 
rate of  Haworth — His  opinion  and  treatment  of  his  parishioners — 
The  "  arvills,"  or  funeral  feasts — Haworth  Field-Kirk — Church- 
riots  at  Haworth  on  the  appointment  of  Mr.  Redhead  as  Perpetual 
Curate — Arrival  of  Mr.  Bronte  at  Haworth,  .  .  .9 

CHAPTER  III. 
The  Rev.  Patrick  Bronte — His  marriage  with  Miss  Branwell  of  Pen- 
zance— Social  customs  in  Penzance — The  Branwell  family — Letters 
of  Miss  Branwell  to  Mr.  Bronte — ^Marriage  of  Mrs.  Bronte — Thorn- 
ton, the  birth-place  of  Charlotte  Bronte — Removal  to  Haworth — 
Description  of  the  Parsonage— The  people  of  Haworth— The  BrontS 
family  at  Haworth— Early  training  of  the  little  Brontes— Character- 
istic anecdotes  of  Mr.  Bronte— Death  of  Mrs.  Bronte— Tillage  scan- 
dal—Studies of  the  Bronte  family— Mr.  Bronte^s  account  of  hia 
children,  ..,,,.  ^  ,      89 


3< 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGI 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Miss  Branwell  comes  to  Hawcrth — Account  of  Cowan's  Bridge  (Lo- 
wood)  School  and  the  Rev.  Cams  Wilson — Originals  of  "Miss 
Scatcherd,"  "Helen  Burns,"  and  "Miss  Temple" — Outbreak  of  fe- 
ver in  the  school — Characteristics  of  the  Bronte  sisters — Deaths  of 
Maria  and  Elizabeth  Bronte,  .  .  .  ,  .51 

CHAPTER  y. 

The  old  servant  Tabby — Patrick  Branwell  Bronte — Charlotte  Bronte's 
catalogue  of  her  juvenile  productions,  with  specimen  page — ^Ex- 
tract from  the  introduction  to  "  Tales  of  the  Islanders  " — "  History 
of  the  year  1829  " — Charlotte's  taste  for  Art — Extracts  from  other 
early  writings  in  MS. — Charlotte's  mental  tendencies  and  home  du- 
ties— A  strange  occurrence  at  the  Parsonage — A  youthful  effusion 
in  verse,  ........      67 

CHAPTER  YI. 

Personal  description  of  Charlotte  Bronte — Miss  Wooler's  school  at  Roe 
Head — Oakwell  Hall  and  its  legends — Charlotte's  first  appearance 
at  soaool — Her  youthful  character  and  political  feelings — School 
days  at  Miss  Wooler's — ^Mr.  Cartwright  and  the  Luddites — ^Mr.  Rob- 
erson  of  Ileald's  Hall — Chapel  scenes  and  other  characteristics  of 
Heckmondwike  and  Gomersall,  ,  .  .  ,  .83 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Charlotte  Bronte  leaves  school,  and  returns  home  to  instruct  her  sis- 
ters— ^Books  at  the  Parsonage — A  dreary  winter — Letters  to  a  friend 
visiting  London  for  the  first  time — On  the  choice  of  Books — On 
dancing — Character  and'talents  of  Branwell  Bronte — Plans  for  his 
advancement — Prospect  of  separation,  .  .  .  .105 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Charlotte  as  teacher  at  Miss  Wooler's  school — Emily's  home-sickness 
— Letters  indicative  of  Charlotte's  despondency  and  melancholy — 
The  sisters  at  home — Winter  evenings  at   Haworth— -Charlotte 


CONTENTS.  VJl 

PAGB 

writes  to  Southey,  and  Branwell  to  Wordsworth — Branwell's  letter 
and  verses— Prospect  of  losing  the  society  of  a  friend; — Charlotte's 
correspondence  with  Southey — Letter  written  in  a  state  of  despond- 
ency— Accident  to  the  old  servant,  and  characteristic  kindness  of 
the  Brontes — Symptoms  of  illness  in  Anne  Bronte — Charlotte's 
first  proposal  of  marriage^ — Charlotte  and  Anne  go  out  as  govern- 
esses— ^Experiences  of  governess  life — Advent  of  the  first  Curate 
at  Haworth — A  second  proposal  of  marriage — A  visit  to  the  sea- 
side,      .  .  .  .  .  ,  .  .  .122 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Branwell  Bronte  still  at  home — Miss  Branwell  and  her  nieces — Plan  of 
keeping  a  school — Charlotte  commences  her  first  story — The  Cu- 
rates at  Haworth — Charlotte's  sentiments  on  marriage — She  seeks 
and  obtains  a  situation  as  governess,  .  ,  .  ^160 

CHAPTER  X. 

Second  experience  of  governess  life — Project  of  a  school  revived,  find 
plans  for  its  realization — Miss  Wooler's  ofier  of  her  school  declined,  182 

CHAPTER  XL 

Mr.  Bronte  accompanies  his  daughters  to  Brussels — Charlotte's  im- 
pressions of  the  place — The  Pensionnat  of  Madame  Heger  and  its 
inmates — ^^L  Heger's  method  of  teaching  French — Charlotte's  exer- 
cises in  French  composition— Her  impressions  of  the  Belgians — Ar- 
rangements of  the  Pensionnat — Charlotte's  conduct  as  English 
teacher — Loss  of  a  young  friend — Death  of  Miss  Branwell,  and  re- 
turn to  Haworth — M.  Heger's  letter  to  Mr.  Bronte,  .  .101 

CHAPTER  XII. 

Charlotte  returns  to  Brussels — Her  account  of  Carnival  and  Lent — Sol 
itariness  of  the  English  teacher  in  ths  Pensionnat — Her  devoir 
"Sur  la  nom  de  Napoleon" — ^Depression,  loneliness,  and  home- 
sickness— ^Estrangement  from  Madame  Heger,  and  return  (o  Ha- 
worth— Traits  of  kindness—Emily  and  her  dog  "  Keeper,"  .    22? 


VllI  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

I'lan  of  school-keeping  revived  and  abandoned — Deplorable  conduct  of 
Branwell  Bronte  and  its  consequences,  ....     ^o2 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

^•iblication  of  the  Poems  of  Currer,  Ellis  and  Acton  Bell — Letter  to 
Miss  Wooler — Preparation  for  publishing  the  sisters'  first  fictions 
— Letter  of  advice  to  a  young  fneini,    .        .  ,  .  »    870 


co:ntents  of  vol.  n. 


CHAPTER  I. 
Mr.  Bronte  afflicted  with  blindness,  and  relieved  by  a  Bucccssfiil  ope- 
ration for  cataract — Charlotte  Bronte's  first  work  of  fiction,  "  The 
Professor" — She  commences  "  Jane  Eyre" — Circumstances  attend- 
ing its  composition — Her  ideas  of  a  heroine — Her  attachment  to 
home — Haworth  in  December — A  letter  of  confession  and  counsel,       I 

CHAPTER  II. 

State  of  Charlotte  Bronte's  health  at  the  commencement  of  184:7 — Fam- 
ily trials — "  Wuthering  Heights  and  Agnes  Grey "  accepted  by  a 
publisher — "  The  Professor"  rejected— Completion  of  "  Jane  Eyre," 
its  reception  and  publication — The  reviews  of  "Jane  Eyre,"  and  the 
author's  comments  on  them — Her  father's  reception  of  the  book — 
Public  interest  excited  by  "  Jane  Eyre  " — Dedication  of  the  second 
edition  to  Mr.  Thackeray — Correspondence  of  Currer  Bell  with  Mr. 
Lewes  on  "  Jane  Eyre  " — ^Publication  of  "  Wuthering  Heights  "  and 
**  Agnes  Grey  "—Miss  Bronte's  account  of  the  authoress  of  "  Wuth- 
ering Heights" — Domestic  anxieties  of  the  Bronte  sisters-^Currer 
Bell's  correspondence  with  Mr.  Lewes — Unhealthy  state  of  Haworth 
• — Charlotte  Bronte  on  the  revolutions  of  1848 — Her  repudiation  of 

\  authorship-— Anne  Bronte's  second  tale,  "  The  Tenant  of  Wildfell 
xiall" — ^Misunderstanding  as  to  the  individuality  of  the  three  Bells, 
and  its  results — Currer  and  Acton  Bell  visit  London — Charlotte 
Bronte's  account  of  her  visit — The  Chapter  Cofiee  House — The 
Clergy  Daughters'  School  at  Casterton— Death  of  Branwell  BrontG 
■i— Illness  and  death  of  Emily  Bronte,  ,  ,  ,  ,14 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

CHAPTER  III. 

The  "  Quarterly  Review  "  on  "  Jane  Ejre" — Severe  illness  of  Anne 
Bronte — Her  last  verses — She  is  removed  to  Scarborough — Her  last 
hours,  and  death  and  burial  there — Charlotte's  return  to  Haworth, 
and  her  loneliness,       .  ...  .  .  .  .      7C 

CHAPTER  lY. 

Commencement  and  completion  of  **  Shirley" — Originals  of  the  charac- 
ters, and  circumstances  under  which  it  was  written—  Loss  on  rail- 
way shares — Letters  to  Mr.  Lewes  and  other  friends  on  **  Shirley," 
and  the  reviews  of  it — Miss  Bronte  visits  London,  meets  Mr.  Thack- 
eray, and  makes  the  acquaintance  of  Miss  Martineau — Her  impres- 
sions of  literary  men,  .  .  .  .       •     .  .98 

CHAPTER  Y. 

"  Currer  Bell"  identified  as  Miss  Bronte  at  Haworth  and  the  vicinity — 
Her  letter  to  Mr.  Lewes  on  his  review  of  *^  Shirley  " — Solitude  and 
heavy  mental  sadness  and  anxiety — She  visits  Sir  J.  and  Lady  Kay 
Shuttleworth — Her  comments  on  critics,  and  remarks  on  Thacke- 
ray's "  Pendennis  "  and  Scott's  **  Suggestions  on  Female  Education  " 
— Opinions  of ''Shirley"  by  Yorkshire  readers,        .  .  .114 

CHAPTER  YI. 
A.n  unhealthy  spring  at  Haworth — Miss  Bponte's  proposed  visit  to  Lon- 
don— Her  remarks  on  "  The  Leader" — Associations  of  her  walks  on 
the  moors — Letter  to  an  unknown  admirer  of  her  works — Incidents 
of  her  visit  to  London — Her  impressions  of  a  visit  to  Scotland — Her 
portrait,  by  Richmond — Anxiety  about  her  father,    .  ,  .123 

CHAPTER  YII. 

Visit  to  Sir  J.  and  Lady  Kay  Shuttleworth — The  biographer's  impres- 
sions of  Miss  Bronte — Miss  Bronte's  account  of  her  visit  to  the 
Lakes  of  Westmoreland— Her  disinclination  for  acquaintance  and 
visiting — Remarks  on  "  Woman's  Mission,"  Tennyson's  "  In  Me- 
moriam,"  &c. — Impressions  of  her  visit  to  Scotland — Remarks  on  a 
review  in  the  *'  Palladium,"     .  .  .  •  •  .  140 


CONTENTS,  VH 

PAGI 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Intended  repablication  of  "  Wuthering  Heights"  and  *'  Agnes  Grey" 
— Reaction  after  her  visit  to  Scotland — Her  first  meeting  with  Mr. 
Lewes — Her  opinion  of  Balzac  and  George  Sand — A  characteristic 
incident — Account  of  a  friendly  visit  to  Haworth  Parsonage — Re- 
marks on  ^*  The  Roman,"  by  Sydney  Dobell,  and  on  the  character 
of  Dr.  Arnold— Letter  to  Mr.  Dobell,  .  .  .  .150 

CHAPTER  IX. 

Miss  Bronte's  visit  to  Miss  Martineau,  and  estimate  of  her  hostess — 
Remarks  on  Mr.  Ruskin's  "  Stones  of  Venice  " — Preparations  for 
another  visit  to  London — Letter  to  Mr.  Sydney  Dobell :  the  moors 
in  autumn — Mr.  Thackeray's  second  lecture  at  Willis's  Rooms,  and 
sensation  produced  by  Currer  Bell's  appearance  there — Her  account 
of  her  visit  to  London — She  breakfasts  with  Mr.  Rogers,  visits  the 
Great  Exhibition,  and  sees  Lord  Westminster's  pictures — Return  to 
Haworth  and  letter  thence — Her  comment  on  Mr.  Thackeray's  Lec- 
ture— Counsel  on  development  of  character,  .  .  .104 

CHAPTER  X. 

Remarks  on  friendship — Letter  to  Mrs.  Gaskell  on  her  and  Miss  Mar- 
tineau's  views  of  the  Great  Exhibition  and  Mr.  Thackeray's  lecture, 
and  on  the  "  Saint's  Tragedy " — ^Miss  Bronte's  feelings  towards 
children — Her  comments  on  Mr.  J.  S.  Mill's  article  on  the  Emanci- 
pation of  women — More  illness  at  Haworth  Parsonage — Letter  on 
Emigration — Periodical  returns  of  illness — ^Miss  Wooler  visits  Ha- 
worth— Miss  Bronte's  impressions  of  her  visit  to  London — Her  ac- 
count of  the  progress  of  ^' Villette" — Her  increasing  illness  and 
sufferings  during  winter — Her  letter-on  Mr.  Thackeray's  *' Esmond  ' 
— Revival  of  sorrows  and  accessions  of  low  spirits — Remarks  on 
some  recent  books — Retrospect  of  the  winter  of  1851-2 — Letter  to 
Mrs.  Gaskell  on  ''  Ruth,"  .  .     ^      .  .  .  .184 

CHAPTER  XL 

Hiss  Bronte  revisits  Scarborough — Serious  illness  and  ultimate  conva- 
lescence of  her  father — Her  own  illness — ^*  ViUette"  nearly  comple- 


Vlll  CONTENTS 

PAGl 

ted — Further  remarks  on  "  Esmond'''  and  ^*  Uncle  Tom  s  Cabin '  — 
Letter  respecting  "Villette"- — Another  letter  about  "Villette" — 
More  remarks  on  "  Esmond  " — Completion  of  **  Villette  " — In- 
stance of  extreme  sensibility,  .  .  .  .  .  .  210 

CHAPTEH  XII. 
Tbe  biographer's  difficulty — Deep  and  enduring  attachment  of  Mr. 
Nicholls  for  Miss  Bronte — Instance  of  her  self-abnegation — She 
again  visits  London — Impressions  of  this  visit — Letter  to  Mrs.  Gas- 
kell — Reception  of  the  critiques  on  "Villette" — ^Misunderstanding 
with  Miss  Martineau — Letter  on  Mr.  Thackeray's  portrait — Visit  of 
ihe  Bishop  of  Kipon  to  Haworth  Parsonage — Her  wish  to  see  the 
unfavourable  critiques  on  her  works — Her  nervous  shyness  of 
strangers,  and  its  cause — Letter  on  Mr.  Thackeray's  lectures,  .  225 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
Letter  to  Mrs.  Gaskell  on  writing  fiction,  &c. — The  biographer's  ac- 
count of  her  visit  to  Haworth,  and  reminiscences  of  conversations 
with  Miss  Bronte — Letters  from  Miss  Bronte  to  her  friends — Her 
engagement  to  Mr.  Nicholls,  and  preparations  for  the  marriage — 
The  marriage  ceremony  and  wedding  tour — Her  happiness  in  the 
married  state — New  symptoms  of  illness,  and  their  cause — The  two 
last  letters  written  by  Mrs.  Nicholls — An  alarming  change— Her 
death,      .  .  .  •  .  .  .  .  .242 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Mourners  at  the  fareral—Concluaion,       .  .  ,  ,  267 


LIFE    OF     CHARLOTTE   BliONTE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

The  Leeds  and  Bradford  railway  runs  along  a  deep 
valley  of  the  Aire  ;  a  slow  and  sluggish  stream,  com- 
pared to  the  neighbouring  river  of  Wharfe.  Keighley  sta- 
tion is  on  this  line  of  railway,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  town  of  the  same  name.  The  number  of  inhabi- 
tants and  the  importance  of  Keighley  have  been  very  greatly 
increased  during  the  last  twenty  years,  owing  to  the  rapidly 
extended  market  for  worsted  manufactures,  a  branch  of  in- 
dustry that  mainly  employs  the  factory  population  of  this 
part  of  Yorkshire,  which  has  Bradford  for  its  centre  and 
metropolis. 

Keighley  is  in  process  of  transformation  from  a  populous, 
old-fashioned  village,  into  a  still  more  populous  and  flourish- 
ing town.  It  is  evident  to  the  stranger,  that  as  the  gable- 
ended  houses,  which  obtrude  themselves  corner-wise  on  the 
widening  street,  fall  vacant,  they  are  pulled  down  to  allow 
of  greater  space  for  traffic,  and  a  more  modern  style  of 
architecture.  The  quaint  and  narrow  shop-windows  of  fifty 
years  ago,  are  giving  way  to  large  panes  and  plate-glass. 
Nearly  every  dwelling  seems  devoted  to  some  branch  of 
commerce.  In  passing  hastily  through  the  town,  one  hardly 
1 


2  LIFE  OF  CnAELOTTE  BRONTE. 

perceives  where  the  necessary  lawyer  and  doctor  can  live,  sa 
little  appearance  is  there  of  any  dwellings  of  the  professional 
middle-class,  such  as  abound  in  our  old  cathedral  towns. 
In  fact,  nothing  can  be  more  opposed  than  the  state  of 
society,  the  modes  of  thinking,  the  standards  of  reference 
on  all  points  of  morality,  manners,  and  even  politics  and 
religion,  in  such  a  new  manufacturing  place  as  Keighley  in 
the  north,  and  any  stately,  sl^py,  picturesque  cathedral 
town  in  the  south.  Yet  the  aspect  of  Keighley  promises 
well  for  future  stateliness,  if  not  picturesqueness.  Grey 
stone  abounds  ;  and  the  rows  of  houses  built  of  it  have  a 
kind  of  solid  grandeur  connected  with  their  uniform  and  en- 
during lines.  The  frame-work  of  the  doors,  and  the  lintels 
of  the  windows,  even  in  the  smallest  dwellings,  are  made  of 
blocks  of  stone.  There  is  no  painted  wood  to  require  con- 
tinual beautifying,  or  else  present  a  shabby  aspect ;  and  tlie 
stone  is  kept  scrupulously  clean  by  the  notable  Yorkshire 
housewifes.  Such  glimpses  into  the  interior  as  a  passer-by 
obtains,  reveal  a  rough  abundance  of  the  means  of  living, 
and  diligent  and  active  habits  in  the  women.  But  the 
voices  of  the  people  are  hard,  and  their  tones  discordant, 
promising  little  of  the  musical  taste  that  distinguishes  the 
district,  and  which  has  already  furnished  a  Carrodus  to  the 
musical  world.  The  names  over  the  shops  (of  which  the  one 
just  given  is  a  sample)  seem  strango  even  to  an  inhabitant 
of  the  neighbouring  county,  and  have  a  peculiar  smack  and 
flavour  of  the  place. 

The  town  of  Keighley  never  quite  melts  into  country  on 
the  road  to  Haworth,  although  the  houses  become  more 
sparse  as  the  traveller  journeys  upwards  to  the  grey  round 
A  ills  that  seem  to  bound  his  journey  in  a  westerly  direction. 
First  come  some  villas;  just  sufficiently  retired  from  the 
road  to  show  that  they  can  scarcely  belong  to  any  one  liabla 
^  be  summoned  in  a  hurry^  at  the  call  of  sutferiD^  or  dan- 


KEIGHLEY   AND   HAWOKTII.  3 

ger,  from  his  comfortable  fire-side ;  the  lawyer,  the  doctor, 
and  the  clergyman,  live  at  hand,  and  hardly  in  the  suburbs 
with  a  screen  of  shrubs  for  concealment. 

In  a  town  one  does  not  look  for  vivid  colouring;  what 
there  may  be  of  this  is  furnished  by  the  wares  in  the  shops, 
not  by  foliage  or  atmospheric  effects;  but  in  the  country 
some  brilliancy  and  vividness  seems  to  be  instinctively  ex 
pected,  and  there  is  consequently  a  slight  feeling  of  disap- 
pointment at  the  grey  neutral  tint  of  every  object,  near  or 
far  off,  on  the  way  from  Keighley  to  Haworth.  The  dis- 
tance is  about  four  miles ;  and,  as  I  have  said,  what  with 
villas,  great  worsted  factories,  rows  of  workmen's  houses 
with  here  and  there  an  old-fashioned  farm-house  and  out- 
buildings, it  can  hardly  be  called  "  country  ''  any  part  of  the 
way.  For  two  miles  the  road  passes  over  tolerably  level 
ground,  distant  hills  on  the  left,  a  "beck"  flowing  through 
meadows  on  the  right,  and  furnishing  water  power,  at  cer- 
tain points,  to  the  factories  built  on  its  banks.  The  air  is 
dim  and  lightless  with  the  smoke  from  all  these  habitations 
and  places  of  business.  The  soil  in  the  valley  (or  "bottom," 
to  use  the  local  term)  is  rich ;  but,  as  the  road  begins  to 
ascend,  the  vegetation  becomes  poorer ;  it  does  not  flourish, 
it  merely  exists ;  and,  instead  of  trees,  there  are  only 
bushes  and  shrubs  about  the  dwellings.  Stone  dykes  are 
everywhere  used  in  place  of  hedges;  and  what  crops  there 
are,  on  the  patcnes  of  arable  land,  consist  of  pale,  hungry- 
looking,  grey-green  oats.  Eight  before  the  traveller  on  this 
road  rises  Haworth  village;  he  can  see  it  for  two  miles 
before  he  arrives,  for  it  is  situated  on  the  side  of  a  pretty 
steep  hill,  with  a  background  of  dun  and  purple  moors, 
rising  and  sweeping  away  yet  higher  than  the  church,  which 
is  built  at  the  very  summit  of  the  long  narrow  street.  AD 
round  the  horizon  there  is  this  same  line  of  sinuous  wave- 
like hills  ;  the  scoops  into  which  they  fall  only  revealing 


i:  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

other  hills  beyond,  of  similar  colour  and  shape,  crowned  with 
wild,  bleak  moors — grand,  from  the  ideas  of  solitude  and 
loneliness  which  they  suggest,  or  oppressive  from  the  feeling 
which  they  give  of  being  pent-up  by  some  monotonous  and 
illimitable  barrier,  according  to  the  mood  of  mind  in  which 
the  spectator  may  be. 

For  a  short  distance  the  road  appears  to  turn  away 
from  Haworth,  as  it  winds  round  the  base  of  the  shoulder 
of  a  hill ;  but  then  it  crosses  a  bridge  over  the  "  beck," 
and  the  ascent  through  the  village  begins.  The  flag-stones 
with  which  it  is  paved  are  placed  end-ways,  in  order  to  give 
a  better  hold  to  the  horses'  feet ;  and,  even  with  this  help, 
they  seem  to  be  in  constant  danger  of  slipping  backwards. 
The  old  stone  houses  are  high  compared  to  the  width  of  the 
street,  which  makes  an  abrupt  turn  before  reaching  the  more 
level  ground  at  the  head  of  the  village,  so  that  the  steep  as- 
pect of  the  place,  in  one  part,  is  almost  like  that  of  a  wall. 
But  this  surmounted,  the  church  lies  a  little  off  the  main 
road  on  the  left;  a  hundred  yards,  or  so,  and  the  driver 
relaxes  his  care,  and  the  horse  breathes  more  easily,  as  they 
pass  into  the  quiet  little  by-street  that  leads  to  Haworth 
Parsonage.  The  churchyard  is  on  one  side  of  this  lane,  the 
school-house  and  the  sexton's  dwelling  (where  the  curates 
formerly  lodged)  on  the  other. 

The  parsonage  stands  at  right  angles  to  the  road,  facing 
down  upon  the  church ;  so  that,  in  fact,  parsonage,  church, 
and  belfried  school- house,  form  three  sides  of  an  irregular 
oblong,  of  which  the  fourth  is  open  to  the  fields  and  moors 
that  lie  beyond.  The  area  of  this  oblong  is  filled  up  hj  a 
crowded  churchyard,  and  a  small  garden  or  court  in  front  of 
the  clergyman's  house.  As  the  entrance  to  this  from  the 
r:»ad  is  at  the  side,  the  path  goes  round  the  corner  into  the 
little  plot  of  ground.  Underneath  the  windows  is  a  narrow 
floTer-border,  carefully  tended  in  days  of  yore,  although  only 


HAWOKTH   CHURCH.  5 

the  most  hardy  plants  could  be  made  to  grow  there.  Within 
the  stone  wall,  which  keeps  out  the  surrounding  churchyard, 
are  bushes  of  elder  and  lilac  ;  the  rest  of  the  ground  is  occu- 
pied by  a  square  grass  plot  and  a  gravel  walk.  The  house 
is  of  grey  stone,  two-stories  high,  heavily  roofed  with  flags, 
in  order  to  resist  the  winds  that  might  strip  off  a  lighter 
covering.  It  appears  to  have  been  built  about  a  hundred 
years  ago,  and  to  consist  of  four  rooms  on  each  story;  the 
two  windows  on  the  right  (as  the  visitor  stands,  with  his 
back  to  the  church,  ready  to  enter  in  at  the  front  door) 
belonging  to  Mr.  Bronte's  study,  the  two  on  the  left  to  the 
family  sitting-room.  Everything  about  the  place  tells  of  the 
most  dainty  order,  the  most  exquisite  cleanliness.  The 
door-steps  are  spotless;  the  small  old-fashioned  window- 
panes  glitter  like  looking-glass.  Inside  and  outside  of  that 
house  cleanliness  goes  up  into  its  essence,  purity. 

The  little  church  lies,  as  I  mentioned,  above  most  of  the 
houses  in  the  village;  and  the  graveyard  rises  above  the 
church,  and  is  terribly  full  of  upright  tombstones.  The 
chapel  or  church  claims  greater  antiquity  than  any  other  in 
that  part  of  the  kingdom ;  but  there  is  no  appearance  of  this 
in  the  external  aspect  of  the  present  edifice,  unless  it  be  in 
the  two  eastern  windows,  which  remain  unmodernized,  and 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  steeple.  Inside,  the  character  of  the 
pillars  shows  that  they  were  constructed  before  the  reign  of 
Henry  VII.  It  is  probable  that  there  existed  on  this  ground 
a  " field-kirk,"  or  oratory,  in  the  earliest  times;  and,  from 
the  archbishop's  registry  at  York,  it  is  ascertained  that  there 
was  a  chapel  at  Haworth  in  1317.  The  inhabitants  refer 
inquirers  concerning  the  date  to  the  following  inscription  on 
a  stone  in  the  church  tower  : — 

"  Hie  fecit  Csenobium  Monachorum  Auteste  fundator.  A.  D.  sex- 
centissimo." 


6  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

That  is  to  say,  before  the  preaching  of  Christianity  in 
Northumbria.  Whitaker  says  that  this  mistake  originated 
in  the  illiterate  copying  out,  by  some  modern  stone-cutter, 
of  an  inscription  in  the  character  of  Henry  the  Eighth's  time 
on  an  adjoining  stone  : — 

**  Orate  pro  bono  statu  Eutest  Tod." 

"  Now  every  antiquary  knows  that  the  formula  of  prayer  *  bono  state  * 
always  refers  to  the  living.  I  suspect  this  singular  Christian  name  hai 
been  mistaken  by  the  stone-cutter  for  Austet,  a  contraction  of  Eustatius, 
but  the  word  Tod,  which  has  been  mis-read  for  the  Arabic  iigures  600  is 
perfectly  fair  and  legible.  On  the  presumption  of  this  foolish  claim  to 
antiquity,  the  people  would  needs  set  up  for  independence,  and  contest 
the  right  of  the  Vicar  of  Bradford  to  nominate  a  curate  at  Haworth." 

I  have  given  this  extract,  in  order  to  explain  the  imagina- 
ry groundwork  of  a  commotion  which  took  place  in  Haworth 
about  five  and  thirty  years  ago,  to  which  I  shall  have  occa- 
sion to  allude  again  more  particularly. 

The  interior  of  the  church  is  common-place  ;  it  is  neither 
old  enough  nor  modern  enough  to  compel  notice.  The  pews 
are  of  black  oak,  with  high  divisions ;  and  the  names  of  those 
to  whom  they  belong  are  painted  in  white  letters  on  the 
doors.  There  are  neither  brasses,  nor  altar-tombs,  nor  monu- 
ments, but  there  is  a  mural  tablet  on  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  communion-table,  bearing  the  following  inscriptbn  • — 

•  HEEE 

LIE   THE   REMAINS   OF 

MARIA    BRONTE,    WIFE 

OF  THE 

liEV.    P.    BEONTE,    A.B.,    MINISTEE   OF   HAWOEXn. 

HER  SOTJL 
DEPAETED   TO   THE   SAVIOIJE,  SEPT.  IStH,  1821, 
IN   THE   SOtH  YEAR   OF  HER  AGE. 
"Be  ye  also  ready  :  for  in  such  an  hour  as  ye  think  not  th3  Son  of 
V  an  Cometh.** — Matthew  xxiv.  44. 


TABLETS    OF   THE    BEONTE    FAMILY.  7 

ALSO   HERE  LIE    THE    EEMAIN8   OF 

MARIA    BRONTE,    DAUGHTER    OF   THE  AFORESAID; 

SHE   DIED    0:f   THE 

Gtk  of  may,  1825,  in  the  12Tn  year  of  her  age, 

AND   OF 

ELIZABETH    BRONTE*,    HER    SISTER, 

irna  died  june  15th,  1825,  in  the  11th  year  of  her  age. 

"  Verily  I  say  unto  you,  Except  ye  be  converted,  and  become  aa 
little  cli'ldren,  ye  ohall  not  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  lieaTCn.* — Matthew 
xviii.  3. 

here  also  lie  the  remains  cp 

PATRICK    BRANWELL    BRONTE, 

TV  no  died  SEPT.  24th,  1848,  aged  30  years. 

AND   OF 

EMILY    JANE    BRONTE, 

WHO   DIED  DEO.    19tH,   1848,   AGED   29    YEARS, 

SON  AND   DAUGHTER   OF  THE 

REV.  P.  BRONTE,   INCUMBENT. 

THIS   STONE  IS  ALSO  DEDICATED   TO   THE 

MEMORY   OF   ANNE    BRONTE, 
YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER    OF  THE  RET.   P.   BRONTE,   A.B. 

SHE   DIED,    AGED   27  YEARS,   MAY   28tH,    1849, 
AND   WAS  BURIED   AT   THE  OLD    CHURCH,   SCARBORO'. 

At  the  upper  part  of  this  tablet  ample  space  is  allowed 
between  the  lines  of  the  inscription ;  when  the  first  memorials 
were  written  down,  the  survivors,  in  their  fond  affection, 
thought  little  of  the  margin  and  verge  they  were  leaving  for 
those  who  were  still  living.  But  as  one  dead  member  of  the 
household  follows  another  fast  to  the  grave,  the  lines  are 
pressed  together,  and  the  letters  become  small  and  cramped. 
Aifter  the  record  of  Anne's  death,  there  is  room  for  no  other. 

But  one  more  of  that  generation — the  last  of  that  nur- 


8  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

sery  of  six  little  motherless  cliildren — was  yet  to  follow, 
before  the  survivor,  the  childless  and  widowed  father,  found 
his  rest.  On  another  tablet,  below  the  first,  the  following 
record  has  been  added  to  that  mournful  list : — 

ADJOINING  LIE   THE  EEMAIXS   OF 
CHARLOTTE,  WIFE 

OF   THE 

EEY.  ARTHUR  BELL  NICHOLLS.  A.B., 

AND  DAUGHTER  OF  THE   RET.  P.   BRONTE,  A.B.,  INCUMBENT. 

BHS  DIED   MARCH   81  ST,  1855,  IIT  THE  39tH 

TEAR   Oy  HER   AGE. 


CHxiRACTERISTICS   OF   YOKKSIIIFwEMEN 


CHAPTER    ir. 

For  a  riglit  understanding  of  the  life  of  my  dear  friend, 
Charlotte  Bronte,  it  appears  to  me  more  necessary  in  her 
case  than  in  most  others,  that  the  reader  should  be  made 
acquainted  with  the  peculiar  forms  of  population  and  society 
amidst  which  her  earliest  years  were  passed,  and  from  which 
both  her  own  and  her  sisters'  first  impressions  of  human  life 
must  have  been  received.  I  shall  endeavour,  therefore,  before 
proceeding  further  with  my  work,  to  present  some  idea  of 
the  character  of  the  people  of  Haworth,  and  the  surround- 
ing districts. 

Even  an  inhabitant  of  the  neighbouring  county  of  Lan- 
caster is  struck  by  the  peculiar  force  of  character  which  the 
Yorkshiremen  display.  This  makes  them  interesting  as  a 
race ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  as  individuals,  the  remarkable 
degree  of  self-sufficiency  they  possess  gives  them  an  air  of  in- 
dependence rather  apt  to  repel  a  stranger.  I  use  this  ex- 
pression, "  self-sufficiency  "  in  the  largest  sense.  Conscious' 
of  the  strong  sagacity  and  the  dogged  power  of  will  which 
seem  almost  the  birthright  of  the  natives  of  the  West 
Riding,  each  man  relies  upon  himself,  and  seeks  no  help  at 
the  hands  of  his  neighbour.  From  rarely  requiring  the  as- 
sistance of  others,  he  comes  to  doubt  the  power  of  bestowing 
it;  from  the  general  success  of  his  effi^rts,  he  grows  to 
depend  upon  them,  and  to  over-esteem  his  own  energy  and 
1* 


/O  LIFE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BKON'iE, 

power.  He  belongs  to  that  keen,  yet  short-siglited  class,  wli« 
consider  suspicion  of  all  whose  honesty  is  not  proved  as  a 
sign  of  wisdom.  The  practical  qualities  of  a  man  are  held 
in  great  respect ;  but  the  want  of  faith  in  strangers  and  un- 
tried modes  of  action,  extends  itself  even  to  the  manner  in 
which  the  virtues  are  regarded ;  and  if  they  produce  no  im- 
wediate  and  tangible  result,  they  are  rather  put  aside  as  unfit 
for  this  busy,  striving  world ;  especially  if  they  are  more  of 
a  passive  than  an  active  character.  The  affections  are 
strong,  and  their  foundations  lie  deep :  but  they  are  not- 
such  affections  seldom  are — wide- spreading ;  nor  do  they 
show  themselves  on  the  surface.  Indeed,  there  is  little  dis- 
play of  any  of  the  amenities  of  life  among  this  wild,  rough 
population.  Their  accost  is  curt ;  their  accent  and  tone  of 
speech  blunt  and  harsh.  Something  of  this  may,  probably, 
be  attributed  to  the  freedom  of  mountain  air  and  of  isolated 
hill-side  life ;  something  be  derived  from  their  rough  Norse 
ancestry.  They  have  a  quick  perception  of  character,  and  a 
keen  sense  of  humour ;  the  dwellers  among  them  must  be 
prepared  for  certain  uncomplimentary,  though  most  likely 
true,  observations,  pithily  expressed.  Their  feelings  are 
not  easily  roused,  but  their  duration  is  lasting.  Hence  there 
is  much  close  friendship  and  faithful  service ;  and  for  a  cor- 
rect exemplifica  bion  of  the  form  in  which  the  latter  fre- 
quently appears,  I  need  only  refer  the  reader  of  ^'  Wuthering 
Heights  "  to  the  character  of  "  Joseph." 

From  the  same  cause  come  also  enduring  grudges,  in  some 
cases  amounting  to  hatred,  which  occasionally  has  been  be- 
queathed from  generation  to  generation.  I  remember  Miss 
BrontS  once  telling  me  that  it  was  a  saying  round  about 
Haworth,  "  Keep  a  stone  in  thy  pocket  seven  year ;  turn  it, 
and  keep  it  seven  year  longer,  that  it  may  be  ever  ready  to 
thine  hand  when  thine  enemy  draws  near." 

The  West  Biding  men  are  sleuth-hounds  in  pursuit  of 


ilANUFACTUEES    OF   THE   WEST   RIDING,  11 

money.  Miss  Bronte  related  to  my  husband  a  curious  in- 
stance  illustrative  of  this  eager  desire  for  riches.  A  man 
that  she  knew,  who  was  a  small  manufacturer,  had  engaged  in 
many  local  speculations,  which  had  always  turned  out  well, 
and  thereby  rendered  him  a  person  of  some  wealth.  He  was 
rather  past  middle  age,  when  he  bethought  him  of  insuring 
his  life ;  and  he  had  only  just  taken  out  his  policy,  when  he 
fell  ill  of  an  acute  disease  which  was  certain  to  end  fatally  in 
a  very  few  days.  The  doctor,  half-hesitatingly,  revealed  to 
him  his  hopeless  state.  "  By  jingo  !  "  cried  he,  rousing  up  at 
once  into  the  old  energy,  "  I  shall  do  the  insurance  com- 
pany !     I  always  was  a  lucky  fellow  !" 

These  men  are  keen  and  shrewd ;  faithful  and  persevering 
in  following  out  a  good  purpose,  fell  in  tracking  an  evil  one. 
They  are  not  emotional ;  they  are  not  easily  made  into  either 
friends  or  enemies ;  but  once  lovers  or  haters,  it  is  difficult  to 
change  their  feeling.  They  are  a  powerful  race  both  in  mind 
and  body,  both  for  good  and  for  evil. 

The  woollen  manufacture  was  introduced  into  this  district 
in  the  days  of  Edward  IIL  It  is  traditionally  said  that  a 
colony  of  Flemings  came  over  and  settled  in  the  West  Biding 
to  teach  the  inhabitants  what  to  do  with  their  wool.  The 
mixture  of  agricultural  with  manufacturing  labour  that  ensued 
and  prevailed  in  the  West  Biding  up  to  a  very  recent  period, 
sounds  pleasant  enough  at  this  distance  of  time,  when  the 
classical  impression  is  left,  and  the  details  forgotten,  or  only 
brought  to  light  by  those  who  explore  the  few  remote  parts 
of  England  where  the  custom  still  lingers.  The  idea  of  the 
mistress  and  her  maidens  spinning  at  the  great  wheels  while? 
the  master  was  abroad,  ploughing  his  fields,  or  seeing  after 
his  flocks  on  the  purple  moors,  is  very  poetical  to  look  back 
upon ;  but  when  such  life  actually  touches  on  our  own  days, 
and  we  can  hear  particulars  from  the  lips  of  those  now  living, 
details  of  coarseness — -of  the  uncouthness  of  the  rustic  mirr 


12  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

glcd  with  tlie  sharpness  of  the  tradesman — of  irregularitj 
and  fierce  lawlessness — come  out,  that  rather  mar  the  vision 
of  pastoral  innocence  and  simplicity.  Still,  as  it  is  the  ex- 
ceptional and  exaggerated  characteristics  of  any  period  that 
leave  the  most  vivid  memory  behind  them,  it  would  be  wrong, 
and  in  my  opinion  faithless,  to  conclude  that  such  and  such 
forms  of  society  and  modes  of  living  were  not  best  for  the 
period  when  they  prevailed,  although  the  abuses  they  may 
have  led  into,  and  the  gradual  progress  of  the  world,  have 
made  it  well  that  such  ways  and  manners  should  pass  away 
for  ever,  and  as  preposterous  to  attempt  to  return  to  them, 
as  it  would  be  for  a  man  to  return  to  the  clothes  of  his 
childhood. 

The  patent  granted  to  Alderman  Cockayne,  and  the 
further  restrictions  imposed  by  James  I.  on  the  export  of 
undyed  woollen  cloths  (met  by  a  prohibition  on  the  part  of 
the  States  of  Holland  of  the  import  of  English-dyed  cloths), 
injured  the  trade  of  the  West  Riding  manufacturers  con- 
siderably. Their  independence  of  character,  their  dislike  of 
authority,  and  their  strong  powers  of  thought,  predisposed 
them  to  rebellion  against  the  religious  dictations  of  such 
men  as  Laud,  and  the  arbitrary  rule  of  the  Stuarts ;  and  the 
injury  done  by  James  and  Charles  to  the  trade  by  which 
they  gained  their  bread,  made  the  great  majority  of  them 
Commonwealth  men.  I  shall  have  occasion  afterwards  to 
give  one  or  two  instances  of  the  warm  feelings  and  extensive 
knowledge  on  subjects  of  both  home  and  foreign  politics 
existing  at  the  present  day  in  the  villages  lying  west  and  east 
of  the  mountainous  ridge  that  separates  Yorkshire  and  Lan- 
cashire ;  the  inhabitants  of  which  are  of  the  same  race  and 
possess  the  same  quality  of  character. 

The  descendants  of  many  who  served  under  Cromwell  at 
Dunbar,  live  on  the  same  lands  as  their  ancestors  occupied 
then ;  and  perhaps  there  is  no  part  of  England  where  the 


DESCENDANTS   OF  THE  TUKIT^VNS.  13 

traditional  and  fond  recollections  of  tlie  Commonwealth  Lave 
lingered  so  long  as  in  that  inhabited  by  the  woollen  manu- 
facturing population  of  the  West  Riding,  who  had  the  re- 
strictions taken  off  their  trade  by  the  Protector's  admirable 
commercial  policy.  I  have  it  on  good  authority  that,  not 
thirty  years  ago,  the  phrase,  "  in  Oliver's  days,"  was  in  com 
mon  use  to  denote  a  time  of  unusual  prosperity.  The  class 
of  Christian  names  prevalent  in  a  district  is  5)ne  indication 
of  the  direction  in  which  its  tide  of  hero-worship  sets.  Grave 
enthusiasts  in  politics  or  religion  perceive  not  the  ludicrous 
side  of  those  which  they  give  to  their  children ;  and  some 
are  to  be  found,  still  in  their  infancy,  not  a  dozen  miles  from 
Haworth,  that  will  have  to  go  through  life  as  Lamartine, 
Kossuth,  and  Dembinsky.  And  so  there  is  a  testimony  to 
what  I  have  said,  of  the  traditional  feeling  of  the  district,  in 
the  fact  that  the  Old  Testament  names  in  general  use  among 
the  Puritans  are  yet  the  prevalent  appellations  in  most 
Yorkshire  families  of  middle  or  humble  rank,  whatever  their 
religious  persuasion  may  be.  There  are  numerous  records, 
too,  that  show  the  kindly  way  in  which  the  ejected  ministers 
were  received  by  the  gentry,  as  well  as  by  the  poorer  part 
of  the  inhabitants,  during  the  persecuting  days  of  Charles  II 
These  little  facts  all  testify  to  the  old  hereditary  spirit  of 
independence,  ready  ever  to  resist  authority  which  was  con- 
ceived to  be  unjustly  exercised,  that  distinguishes  the  people 
of  the  West  Riding  to  the  present  day. 

The  parish  of  Halifax  touches  that  of  Bradford,  in  which 
the  chapelry  of  Haworth  is  included ;  and  the  nature  of  the 
ground  in  the  two  parishes  is  much  of  the  same  wild  and 
hilly  description.  The  abundance  of  coal,  and  the  number 
of  mountain  streams  in  the  district,  make  it  highly  favourable 
to  manufactures ;  and  accordingly,  as  I  stated,  the  inhabit- 
ants have  for  centuries  been  engaged  in  making  cloth,  as  well 
RS  in  agricultural  pursuits.     But  the  intercourse  of  tr;tde 


14  LIFE   OF   CHAKLOTTE  BRONTE. 

failed,  for  a  long  time,  to  bring  amenity  and  civilization  intc 
tliese  outlying  hamlets,  or  widely  scattered  dwellings.  Mr. 
Hunter,  in  Ms  "  Life  of  Oliver  Heywood,"  quotes  a  sentence 
oat  of  a  memorial  of  one  James  Rither,  living  in  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth,  which  is  partially  true  to  this  day — 

"  They  have  no  superior  to  court,  no  civilities  to  practise : 
a  sour  and  sturdy  humour  is  the  consequence,  so  that  a  stranger 
\b  shocked  by  a  tone  of  defiance  in  every  voice,  and  an  air 
of  fierceness  in  every  countenance." 

Even  now,  a  stranger  can  hardly  ask  a  quesdon  without 
receiving  some  crusty  reply,  if,  indeed,  he  receive  any  at  all. 
Sometimes  the  sour  rudeness  amounts  to  positive  insult. 
Yet,  if  the  ^^  foreigner"  takes  all  this  churlishness  good- 
humouredly,  or  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  makes  good  any 
claim  upon  their  latent  kindliness  and  hospitality,  they  are 
faithful  and  generous,  and  thoroughly  to  be  relied  upon.  As 
a  slight  illustration  of  the  roughness  that  pervades  all  classes 
in  these  out-of-the-way  villages,  I  may  relate  a  little  adven 
ture  which  happened  to  my  husband  and  myself,  three  year, 
ago,  at  Addingham — 

From  Penigent  to  Pendle  Hill, 

From  Linton  to  luOug-Addlngliam, 
And  all  that  Craven  coasts  dj^  tell,  &;c. 

one  of  the  places  that  sent  forth  its  fighting  men  to  thv 
famous  old  battle  of  Flodden  Field,  and  a  village  not  man^ 
miles  from  Haworth. 

We  were  driving  along  the  street,  when  one  of  those 
ne'er-do-well  lads  who  seem  to  have  a  kind  of  magnetic  power 
for  misfortunes,  having  jumped  into  the  stream  that  runs 
through  the  place,  just  where  all  the  broken  glass  and  bottles 
are  thrown,  staggered  naked  and  nearly  covered  with  blood 
intc  a  cottage  before  us.  Besides  receiving  another  bad  cut 
in  the  arm,  he  had  completely  laid  open  the  artery,  and  was 


A   CHAKACTEEISTIO    INCIDENT.  15 

in  a  fair  way  of  bleeding  to  death — which,  one  of  his  rela- 
tions comforted  him  by  saying,  would  be  likely  to  *^  save  a 
deal  o'  trouble." 

When  my  husband  had  checked  the  effusion  of  blood 
with  a  strap  that  one  of  the  bystanders  unbuckled  from  his 
leg,  he  asked  if  a  surgeon  had  been  sent  for. 

*' Yoi,"  was  the  answer;  "but  we  dunna  think  he'll 
come." 

"Why  not?" 

"  He's  owd,  yo  seen,  and  asthmatic,  and  it's  up-hill." 

My  husband,  taking  a  boy  for  his  guide,  drove  as  fast  as 
he  could  to  the  surgeon's  house,  which  was  about  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  off,  and  met  the  aunt  of  the  wounded  lad 
leaving  it. 

"  Is  he  coming  ?  "  inquired  my  husband. 

"  Well,  he  didna'  say  he  wouldna'  come." 

*'^But  tell  him  the  lad  may  bleed  to  death." 

«  I  did." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  Why,  only,  '  D n  him  ;  what  do  I  care.'  " 

It  ended,  however,  in  his  sending  one  of  his  sons,  who, 
though  not  brought  up  to  "  the  surgering  trade,"  was  able 
to  do  what  was  necessary  in  the  way  of  bandages  and  plais- 
ters.  The  excuse  made  for  the  surgeon  was,  that  "  he  was 
near  eighty,  and  getting  a  bit  doited,  and  had  had  a  matter 
o'  twenty  childer." 

Among  the  most  unmoved  of  the  lookers-on  was  the 
brother  of  the  boy  so  badly  hurt ;  and  while  he  was  lying  in 
a  pool  of  blood  on  the  flag  floor,  and  crying  out  how  much 
his  arm  was  "  warching,"  his  stoical  relation  stood  coolly 
gmoking  his  bit  of  black  pipe,  and  uttered  not  a  single  word 
of  either  sympathy  or  sorrow. 

Forest  customs,  existing  in  the  fringes  of  dark  wood, 
which  clothed  the  declivity  of  the  hills  on  either  side,  tended 


16  LITE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

to  brutalize  the  population  until  the  middle  of  the  seven 
teenth  century.  Execution  by  beheading  was  performed  in 
a  summary  way  upon  either  men  or  women  who  were  guilty 
of  but  very  slight  crimes ;  and  a  dogged,  yet  in  some  casea 
fine,  indifierence  to  human  life  was  thus  generated.  The 
roads  were  so  notoriously  bad,  even  up  to  the  last  thirty 
years,  that  there  was  little  communication  between  one 
village  and  another;  if  the  produce  of  industry  could  be 
conveyed  at  stated  times  to  the  cloth  market  of  the  district, 
it  was  all  that  could  be  done ;  and,  in  lonely  houses  on  the 
distant  hill-side,  or  by  the  small  magnates  of  secluded  ham- 
lets, crimes  might  be  committed  almost  unknown,  certainly 
without  any  great  uprising  of  popular  indignation  calculated 
to  bring  down  the  strong  arm  of  the  law.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  in  those  days  there  was  no  rural  constabu- 
lary ;  and  the  few  magistrates  left  to  themselves,  and  gene- 
rally related  to  one  another,  were  most  of  them  inclined  to 
tolerate  eccentricity,  and  to  wink  at  faults  too  much  like 
their  own. 

Men  hardly  past  middle  life  talk  of  the  days  of  their 
youth,  spent  in  this  part  of  the  country,  when,  during  the 
winter  months,  they  rode  up  to  the  saddle-girths  in  mud ; 
when  absolute  business  was  the  only  reason  for  stirring  be- 
yond the  precincts  of  home ;  and  when  that  business  wa^ 
conducted  under  a  pressure  of  difiiculties  which  they 
themselves,  borne  along  to  Bradford  market  in  a  swift  first- 
class  carriage,  can  hardly  believe  to  have  been  possible. 
For  instance,  one  woollen  manufacturer  says  that,  not  five- 
and-twenty  years  ago,  he  had  to  rise  betimes  to  set  off  on  a 
winter's  morning  in  order  to  be  at  Bradford  with  the  great 
waggon-load  of  goods  manufactured  by  his  father :  this  load 
was  packed  over-night,  but  in  the  morning  there  was  great 
gathering  around  it,  and  flashing  of  lanterns,  and  examina- 
tion of  horses'  feet,  before  the  ponderous  waggon  got  under 


ISOLATED   DWELLINGS.  11 

i^eigli ;  and  then  some  one  had  to  go  groping  here  and 
there,  on  hands  and  knees,  and  always  sounding  with  a  staff 
down  the  long,  steep,  slippery  brow,  to  find  where  the  horses 
might  tread  safely,  until  they  reached  the  comparative  easy 
going  of  the  deep  rutted  main  road.  People  went  on  horse- 
back over  the  upland  moors,  following  the  tracks  of  the  pack- 
horses  that  carried  the  parcels,  baggage,  or  goods  from  one 
town  to  another,  between  which  there  did  not  happen  to  be  A 
highway. 

But  in  the  winter,  all  such  communication  was  impcisi- 
ble,  by  reason  of  the  snow  which  lay  long  and  late  on  the 
bleak  high  ground.  I  have  known  people  who,  travelling  by 
the  mail-coach  over  Blackstone  Edge,  had  been  snowed  up 
for  a  week  or  ten  days  at  the  little  inn  near  the  summit,  and 
obliged  to  spend  both  Christmas  and  New  Year's  Day  there, 
till  the  store  of  provisions  laid  in  for  the  use  of  the  land- 
lord and  his  family  falling  short  before  the  inroads  of  the 
unexpected  visitors,  they  had  recourse  to  the  turkeys,  geese, 
and  Yorkshire  pies  with  which  the  coach  was  laden;  and 
even  these  were  beginning  to  fail,  when  a  fortunate  thaw 
released  them  from  their  prison. 

Isolated  as  the  hill  villages  may  be,  they  are  in  the 
world,  compared  with  the  loneliness  of  the  grey  ancestral 
houses  to  be  seen  here  and  there  in  the  dense  hollows  of 
the  moorsw  These  dwellings  are  not  large,  yet  they  are 
solid  and  roomy  enough  for  the  accommodation  of  those 
who  live  in  them  and  to  whom  the  surrounding  estates  be- 
long. The  land  has  often  been  held  by  one  family  since 
the  days  of  the  Tudors ;  the  owners  are,  in  fact,  the  remains 
of  the  old  yeomanry — small  squires,  who  are  rapidly  becom- 
ing extinct  as  a  claas,  from  one  of  two  causes.  Either 
the  possessor  falls  into  idle,  drinking  habits,  and  so  is  obliged 
eventually  to  sell  his  property  :  or  he  finds,  if  more  shrewd 
and  adventurous,  that  the  "  beck  "  running  down  the  moun* 


18  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

tain  side,  or  tlie  minerals  beneath  his  feet,  can  be  turned  into 
a  new  source  of  wealth :  and  leaving  the  old  plodding  life  ol 
a  landowner  with  small  capital,  he  turns  manufacturer,  or 
digs  for  coal,  or  quarries  for  stone. 

Still  there  are  those  remaining  of  this  class — dwellers  in 
the  lonely  houses  far  away  in  the  upland  districts — even  at 
the  present  day,  who  sufficiently  indicate  what  strange  eccen- 
tricity— what  wild  strength  of  will — nay,  even  what  unnatu- 
ral power  of  crime  was  fostered  by  a  mode  of  living  in  which 
a  man  seldom  met  his  fellows,  and  where  public  opinion  was 
only  a  distant  and  inarticulate  echo  of  some  clearer  voice 
sounding  behind  the  sweeping  horizon. 

A  solitary  life  cherishes  mere  fancies  until  they  become 
manias.  And  the  powerful  Yorkshire  character  which  was 
scarcely  tamed  into  subjection  by  all  the  contact  it  met 
with  in  "  busy  town  or  crowded  mart,"  has  before  now  broken 
out  into  strange  wilfulness  in  the  remoter  districts.  A 
singular  account  was  recently  given  me  of  a  landowner  (living 
it  is  true,  on  the  Lancashire  side  of  the  hills,  but  of  the  same 
blood  and  nature  as  the  dwellers  on  the  other)  who  was 
supposed  to  be  in  the  receipt  of  seven  or  eight  hundred  a 
year,  and  whose  house  bore  marks  of  handsome  antiquity, 
as  if  his  forefathers  had  been  for  a  long  time  people  of  con- 
sideration. My  informant  was  struck  with  the  appearance  of 
the  place,  and  proposed  to  the  countryman  who  was  accom- 
panying him,  to  go  up  to  it  and  take  a  nearer  inspection. 
The  reply  was,  "  Yo'd  better  not ;  he'd  threap  yo  down  th' 
loan.  He's  let  fly  at  some  folks'  legs,  and  let  shot  lodgo 
in  'em  afore  now,  for  going  too  near  to  his  house."  And 
finding,  on  closer  inquiry,  that  such  was  really  the  inhos- 
pitable custom  of  this  moorland  squire,  the  gentleman  gave 
up  his  purpose.  I  believe  that  the  savage  yeoman  is  still 
living. 

Anotlier  squire,  of  more  distinguished  family  and  largei 


'  KUDE    SrORTS    OF   YORKSHIRE.  19 

property — one  is  thence  led  to  imagine  of  better  education, 
but  that  does  not  always  follow — died  at  his  house,  not  many 
miles  from  Haworth,  only  a  few  years  ago.  His  great  amuse- 
ment and  occupation  had  been  cock-fighting.  When  he  was 
confined  to  his  chamber  with  what  he  knew  would  be  his  last 
illness,  he  had  his  cocks  brought  np  there,  and  watched  the 
bloody  battle  from  his  bed.  As  his  mortal  disease  increased, 
and  it  became  impossible  for  him  to  turn  so  as  to  follow  the 
combat,  he  had  looking-glasses  arranged  in  such  a  manner 
around  and  above  him,  as  he  lay,  that  he  could  still  seo 
the  cocks  fighting.     And  in  this  manner  he  died. 

These  are  merely  instances  of  eccentricity  compared  to 
the  tales  of  positive  violence  and  crime  that  have  occurred 
in  these  isolated  dwellings,  which  still  linger  in  the  memories 
of  the  old  people  of  the  district,  and  some  of  which  were 
doubtless  familiar  to  the  authors  of  "  Wuthering  Heights  " 
and  "  The  Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall." 

The  amusements  of  the  lower  classes  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  be  more  humane  than  those  of  the  wealthy  and 
better  educated  The  gentleman  who  has  kindly  furnished 
me  with  some  of  the  particulars  I  have  given,  remembers 
the  bull-baijbings  at  Kochdale,  not  thirty  years  ago.  The 
bull  was  fastened  by  a  chain  or  rope  to  a  post  in  the  river. 
To  increase  the  amount  of  water,  as  well  as  to  give  their 
workpeople  the  opportunity  of  savage  delight,  the  masters 
were  accustomed  to  stop  their  mills  on  the  day  when  the 
sport  took  place.  The  bull  would  sometimes  wheel  sud- 
denly round,  so  that  the  rope  by  which  he  was  fastened, 
swept  those  who  had  been  careless  enough  to  come  within 
its  range  down  into  the  water,  and  the  good  people  of 
Rochdale  had  the  excitement  of  seeing  one  or  two  of  their 
neighbours  drowned,  as  well  as  of  witnessing  the  bull  baited, 
and  the  dogs  torn  and  tossed. 

The  people  of  Haworth  were  not  less  strong  and  full  of 


20  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

character  than  their  neighbours  on  either  side  of  the  hilL 
The  village  lies  embedded  in  the  moors,  between  the  two 
counties,  on  the  old  road  between  Keighley  and  Colne. 
About  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  it  became  famous  in 
the  religious  world  as  the  scene  of  the  ministrations  of  the 
Ilev.  William  Grimshaw,  curate  of  Haworth  for  twenty 
years.  Before  this  time,  it  is  probable  that  the  curates 
were  of  the  same  order  as  one  Mr.  Nicholls,  a  Yorkshire 
clergyman  in  the  days  immediately  succeeding  the  Kefor- 
mation,  who  was  "  much  addicted  to  drinking  and  company- 
keeping,"  and  used  to  say  to  his  companions  "  You  must 
not  heed  me  but  when  I  am  got  three  feet  above  the  earth," 
that  was,  into  the  pulpit. 

Mr.  Grimshaw's  life  was  written  by  Newton,  Cowper's 
friend ;  and  from  it  may  be  gathered  some  curious  particu- 
lars of  the  manner  in  which  a  rough  population  were  swayed 
and  governed  by  a  man  of  deep  convictions,  and  strong 
earnestness  of  purpose.  It  seems  that  he  had  not  been  in 
any  way  remarkable  for  religious  zeal,  though  he  had  led  a 
moral  life,  and  been  conscientious  in  fulfilling  his  parochial 
duties,  until  a  certain  Sunday  in  September,  1744,  when  tho 
servant,  rising  at  five,  found  her  master  already  engaged  in 
prayer ;  she  stated  that,  after  remaining  in  his  chamber  for 
some  time,  he  went  to  engage  in  religious  exercises  in  the 
house  of  a  parishioner,  then  home  again  to  pray ;  thence,  still 
fasting,  to  the  church,  where,  as  he  was  reading  the  second 
lesson,  he  fell  down,  and,  on  his  partial  recovery,  had  to  be 
led  from  the  church.  As  he  went  out,  he  spoke  to  the  con- 
gregation, and  told  them  not  to  disperse,  as  he  had  something 
to  say  to  them,  and  would  return  presently.  He  was  taken 
to  the  clerk's  house,  and  again  became  insensible.  His  ser- 
vant rubbed  him,  to  restore  the  circulation ;  and  when  he 
was  brought  to  himself  "  he  seemed  in  a  great  rapture,"  and 
the  first  words  he  uttered  were  "  I  have  had  a  glorious  vision 


MR.    GRIMSHAW    OF   IIAWORTn.  21 

from  the  third  heaven."  He  did  not  say  what  he  had  seen, 
but  returned  into  the  church,  and  began  the  service  again, 
at  two  in  the  afternoon,  and  went  on  until  seven. 

From  this  time  he  devoted  himself,  with  the  fervour  of  a 
Wesley,  and  something  of  the  fanaticism  of  a  Whitfield,  to 
calling  out  a  religious  life  among  his  parishioners.  They 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  playing  at  foot-ball  on  Sunday, 
using  stones  for  this  purpose ;  and  giving  and  receiving 
challenges  from  other  parishes.  There  were  horse-races 
held  on  the  moors  just  above  the  village,  which  were  peri- 
odical sources  of  drunkenness  and  profligacy.  Scarcely  a 
wedding  took  place  without  the  rough  amusement  of  foot 
races,  where  the  half  naked  runners  were  a  scandal  to  all 
decent  strangers.  The  old  custom  of  "arvills,"  or  funeral 
feasts,  led  to  frequent  pitched  battles  between  the  drunken 
mourners.  Such  customs  were  the  outward  signs  of  the 
kind  of  people  with  whom  Mr.  Grimshaw  had  to  deal.  But, 
by  various  means,  some  of  the  most  practical  kind,  he 
wrought  a  great  change  in  his  parish.  In  his  preaching  he 
was  occasionally  assisted  by  Wesley  and  Whitfield,  and  at 
such  times  the  little  church  proved  much  too  small  to  hold 
the  throng  that  poured  in  from  distant  villages,  or  lonely 
moorland  hamlets  ;  and  frequently  they  were  obliged  to 
meet  in  the  open  air ;  indeed,  there  was  not  room  enough 
in  the  church  even  for  the  communicants.  Mr.  Whitfield 
was  once  preaching  in  Haworth,  and  made  use  of  some  such 
expression,  as  that  he  hope^i  there  was  no  need  to  say  much 
to  this  congregation,  as  they  had  sat  under  so  pious  and 
godly  a  minister  for  so  many  years ;  "  whereupon  Mr. 
Grimshaw  stood  up  in  his  place,  and  said  with  a  loud  voice, 
*  Oh,  sir !  for  God's  sake  do  not*  speak  so.  I  pray  you  do 
not  flatter  them.  I  fear  the  greater  part  of  them  are  going 
to  hell  with  their  eyes  open.'  "  But  if  they  were  so  bound, 
it  was  not  for  want  of  exertion  on  Mr.  Grimshaw's  part  to 


22  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

prevent  them.  He  used  to  preach  twenty  or  thirty  times  ^ 
week  in  private  houses.  If  he  perceived  any  one  inattentive 
to  his  prayers,  he  would  stop  and  rebuke  the  offender,  and 
not  go  on  till  he  saw  every  one  on  their  knees.  He  waci 
very  earnest  in  enforcing  the  strict  observance  of  Sunday ; 
and  would  not  even  allow  his  parishioners  to  walk  in  the 
fields  between  services.  He  sometimes  gave  out  a  very  long 
Psalm  (tradition  says  the  119th),  and  while  it  was  being  sung, 
he  left  the  reading-desk,  and  taking  a  horsewhip  went  into  the 
public-houses,  and  flogged  the  loiterers  into  church.  They 
were  swift  who  could  escape  the  lash  of  the  parson  by 
sneaking  out  the  back  way.  He  had  strong  health  and  an 
active  body,  and  rode  far  and  wide  over  the  hills,  "  awaken- 
ing "  those  who  had  previously  had  no  sense  of  religion. 
To  save  time,  and  be  no  charge  to  the  families  at  whose 
houses  he  held  his  prayer-meetings,  he  carried  his  provisions 
with  him  ;  all  the  food  he  took  in  the  day  on  such  occasions 
consisting  simply  of  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter,  or  dry  bread 
and  a  raw  onion. 

The  horse-races  were  justly  objectionable  to  Mr.  Grim- 
shaw ;  they  attracted  numbers  of  profligate  people  to  Haworth, 
and  brought  a  match  to  the  combustible  materials  of  the 
place,  only  too  ready  to  blaze  out  into  wickedness.  The 
story  is,  that  he  triad  all  means  of  persuasion,  and  even  in- 
timidation, to  have  the  races  discontinued,  but  in  vain.  At 
length,  in  despair,  he  prayed  with  such  fervor  of  earnestness 
that  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents,  and  deluged  the  ground, 
so  that  there  was  no  footing  for  man  or  beast,  even  if  the 
multitude  had  been  willing  to  stand  such  a  flood  let  down 
from  above.  And  so  Haworth  races  were  stopped,  and  have 
never  been  resumed  to  this  day.  Even  now  the  memory  of 
this  good  man  is  held  in  reverence,  and  his  faithful  ministra- 
tions and  real  virtues  are  one  of  the  boasts  of  the  parish. 

But  after  his  time,  I  fear  there  was  a  falling  back  into 


THE    "  ARVILL,"   OR   FUNERAL   FEAST.  23 

the  wild  rough  heathen  ways,  from  which  he  had  pulled 
them  up,  as  it  were,  bj  the  passionate  force  of  his  individual 
character.  He  had  built  a  chapel  for  the  Wesleyan  Metho- 
dists, and  not  very  long  after  the  Baptists  established  them- 
selves in  a  place  of  worship.  Indeed,  as  Dr.  Whitaker  says, 
the  people  of  this  district  are  "  strong  religionists ;  "  only, 
fifty  years  ago,  their  religion  did  not  work  down  into  their 
lives.  Half  that  length  of  time  back,  the  code  of  morals 
seemed  to  be  formed  upon  that  of  their  Norse  ancestors.  Ke- 
venge  was  handed  down  from  father  to  son  as  an  hereditary 
duty ;  and  a  great  capability  for  drinking,  without  the  head 
being  affected,  was  considered  as  one  of  the  manly  virtues. 
The  games  of  foot-ball  on  Sundays,  with  the  challenges  to 
the  neighbouring  parishes,  were  resumed,  bringing  in  an  in- 
flux of  riotous  strangers  to  fill  the  public-houses,  and  make 
the  more  sober-minded  inhabitants  long  for  good  Mr.  Grim- 
shaw's  stout  arm,  and  ready  horsewhip.  The  old  custom  of 
"  arvills  "  was  as  prevalent  as  ever.  The  sexton,  standing  at 
the  foot  of  the  open  grave,  announced  that  the  "  arvill " 
would  be  held  at  the  Black  Bull,  or  whatever  public-house 
.  might  be  fixed  upon  by  the  friends  of  the  dead ;  and  thither 
the  mourners  and  their  acquaintances  repaired.  The  origin 
of  the  custom  had  been  the  necessity  of  furnishing  some  re- 
freshment for  those  who  came  from  a  distance,  to  pay  the 
last  mark  of  respect  to  a  friend.  In  the  life  of  Oliver  Hey- 
wood  there  are  two  quotations,  which  show  what  sort  of  food 
was  provided  for  ^'  arvills  "  in  quiet  Nonconformist  connec- 
tions in  the  seventeenth  century ;  the  first  (from  Thoresby) 
tells  of  "  cold  possets,  stewed  prunes,  cake,  and  cheese,"  as 
being  the  arvill  after  Oliver  Heywood's  funeral.  The  second 
gives,  as  rather  shabby,  according  to  the  notion  of  the  times 
(1673),  "  nothing  but  a  bit  of  cake,  draught  of  wine,  pibco 
of  rosemary,  and  pair  of  gloves. '^ 

But  the  arvills  at  Haworth  were  often  far  mere  jovial 


24  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

doings.  Among  the  poor,  the  mourners  were  only  ex- 
pected to  provide  a  kind  of  spiced  roll  for  each  person; 
and  the  expense  of  the  liquors — rum,  or  ale,  or  a  mixture 
of  both  called  "  dog's  nose  " — was  generally  defrayed  by 
each  guest  placing  some  money  on  a  plate,  set  in  the  middle 
of  the  table.  Richer  people  would  order  dinner  for  their 
friends.  At  the  funeral  of  Mr.  Charnock  (the  next  succes- 
gor  but  one  to  Mr.  Grimshaw  in  the  incumbency),  above 
eighty  people  were  bid  to  the  arvill,  and  the  price  of  the 
feast  was  45.  6c?.  per  head,  all  of  which  was  defrayed  by  the 
friends  of  the  deceased.  As*  few  "  shirked  their  liquor," 
there  were  very  frequently  "  up-and-down-fights  '^  before  the 
close  of  the  day ;  sometimes  with  the  horrid  additions  of 
"  pawsing  "  and  "  gouging,"  and  biting. 

Although  I  have  dwelt  on  the  exceptional  traits  in  the 
characteristics  of  these  stalwart  West-Ridingers,  such  as 
they  were  in  the  first  quarter  of  this  century,  if  not  a  few 
years  later,  I  have  little  doubt  that  in  the  every-day  life  of 
the  people  so  independent,  wilful,  and  full  of  grim  humour, 
there  would  be  much  found  even  at  present  that  would  shock 
those  accustomed  only  to  the  local  manners  of  the  south ; 
and,  in  return,  I  suspect  the  shrewd,  sagacious,  energetic 
Yorkshire  man  would  hold  such  "  foreigners  "  in  no  small 
contempt. 

I  have  said  it  is  most  probable  that  where  Haworth 
Church  now  stands,  there  was  once  an  ancient  "field-kirk," 
or  oratory.  It  occupied  the  third  or  lowest  class  of  ecclesi- 
astical structures,  according  to  the  Saxon  law,  and  had  no 
right  of  sepulture,  or  administration  of  sacraments.  It  was 
so  called  because  it  was  built  without  enclosure,  and  open 
tx)  the  adjoining  fields  or  moors.  The  founder,  according  to 
the  laws  of  Edgar,  was  bound,  without  subtracting  from  his 
tithes,  to  maintain  the  ministering  priest  out  of  the  remain- 
ing nine  parts  of  his  income.     After  the  Reformation,  the 


HAWOETH   FIELD- KIRK.  25 

right  of  choosing  their  clergyman,  at  any  of  those  chapels 
of  ease,  which  had  formerly  been  field-kirks,  was  vested  in 
the  freeholders  and  trustees  subject  to  the  approval  of  the 
vicar  of  the  parish.  But  owing  to  some  negligence,  this 
right  has  been  lost  to  the  freeholders  and  trustees  at  Haworth, 
ever  since  the  days  of  Archbishop  Sharp ;  and  the  power  of 
choosing  a  minister  has  lapsed  into  the  hands  of  the  Vicar  of 
Bradford.  So  runs  the  account,  according  to  one  authority. 
Mr.  Bronte  says, — "  This  living  has  for  its  patrons  the  Vicar 
of  Bradford  and  certain  trustees.  My  predecessor  took  the 
living  with  the  consent  of  the  Vicar  of  Bradford,  but  in 
opposition  to  the  trustees ;  in  consequence  of  which  he  was 
so  opposed  that,  after  only  three  weeks'  possession,  he  was 
compelled  to  resign." 

In  conversing  on  the  character  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
West  Riding  with  Dr.  Scoresby,  who  had  been  for  some 
time  Vicar  of  Bradford,  he  alluded  to  certain  riotous  trans- 
actions which  had  taken  place  at  Haworth  on  the  presenta- 
tion of  the  living  to  Mr.  Redhead,  Mr.  Bronte's  predecessor ; 
and  said  that  there  had  been  so  much  in  the  particulars 
indicative  of  the  character  of  the  people,  that  he  advised  me 
to  inquire  into  them.  I  have  accordingly  done  so,  and,  from 
the  lips  of  some  of  the  survivors  among  the  actors  and 
spectators,  I  have  learnt  the  means  taken  to  eject  the  nomi- 
nee of  the  Vicar. 

The  previous  incumbent,  next  but  one  in  succession  to 
Mr.  Grimshaw,  had  been  a  Mr.  Charnock.  He  had  a  long 
illness  which  rendered  him  unable  to  discharge  his  duties 
without  assistance,  and  Mr.  Redhead  came  to  help  him.  As 
long  as  Mr.  Charnock  lived,  his  curate  gave  the  people  much 
satisfaction,  and  was  highly  regarded  by  them.  But  the 
case  was  entirely  altered  when,  at  Mr.  Charnock's  death  in 
1810  *»hey  conceived  that  the  trustees  had  been  unjustly  de- 
void. I, — 2 


26  LITE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BKONTE. 

prived  of  their  rights  by  the  Vicar  of  Bradford,  who  ap« 
pointed  Mr.  Redhead  as  perpetual  curate. 

The  first  Sunday  ho  officiated,  Haworth  church  was  filled 
even  to  the  aisles ;  most  of  the  people  wearing  the  wooden 
clogs  of  the  district.  But  while  Mr.  Bedhead  was  reading 
the  second  lesson,  the  whole  congregation,  as  by  one  impulse, 
began  to  leave  the  church,  making  all  the  noise  they  could 
with  clattering  and  clumping  of  clogs,  till,  at  length,  Mr. 
Bedhead  and  the  clerk  were  the  only  two  left  to  continue 
the  service.  This  was  bad  enough,  but  the  next  Sunday  the 
proceedings  were  far  worse.  Then,  as  befoi-e,  the  church 
was  well  filled,  but  the  aisles  were  left  clear ;  not  a  creature, 
not  an  obstacle  was  in  the  way.  The  reasons  for  this  was 
made  evident  about  the  same  time  in  the  reading  of  the 
service  as  the  disturbances  had  begun  the  previous  week.  A 
man  rode  into  the  church  upon  an  ass,  with  his  face  turned 
towards  the  tail,  and  as  many  old  hats  piled  on  his  head,  as 
he  could  possibly  carry.  He  began  urging  his  beast  round 
the  aisles,  and  the  screams,  and  cries,  and  laughter  of  the 
congregation  entirely  drowned  all  sound  of  Mr.  Bedhead's 
voice ;  and,  I  believe,  he  was  obliged  to  desist. 

Hitherto  they  had  not  proceeded  to  anything  like  per' 
sonal  violence;  but  on  the  third  Sunday  they  must  have 
been  greatly  irritated  at  seeing  Mr.  Bedhead,  determined  to 
brave  their  will,  ride  up  the  village  street,  accompanied  by 
several  gentlemen  from  Bradford.  They  put  up  their  horses 
at  the  Black  Bull — the  little  inn  close  upon  the  churchyard, 
for  the  convenience  of  arvills  as  well  as  for  other  purposes 
— and  went  into  church.  On  this  the  people  followed,  with 
a  chimney-sweeper,  whom  they  had  employed  to  clean  the 
chimneys  of  some  outbuildings  belonging  to  the  church  that 
very  morning,  and  afterwards  plied  with  drink  till  he  was  in 
a  state  of  solemn  intoxication.  They  placed  him  right  before 
tl^e  reading-dcskj  where  his  blackened  &ce  nodded  a  drunken, 


CHURCH-EIOTS   AT   IIAWC  RTII.  27 

stupid  assent  to  all  that  Mr.  Redhead  said.  At  last,  either 
prompted  by  some  mischief-maker,  or  from  some  tipsy  im- 
pulse, he  clambered  up  the  pulpit  stairs,  and  attempted  to 
embrace  Mr.  Redhead.  Then  the  profane  fuw  grew  fast 
and  furious.  They  pushed  the  soot-covered  chimney-sweeper 
against  Mr.  Redhead,  as  he  tried  to  escape.  They  threw  both 
him  and  his  tormentor  down  on  the  ground  in  the  church- 
yard where  the  soot  bag  had  been  emptied,  and,  though,  at 
last,  Mr.  Redhead  escaped  into  the  Black  Bull,  the  doors 
of  which  were  immediately  barred,  the  people  raged  with- 
out, threatening  to  stone  him  and  his  friends.  One  of  my 
informants  is  an  old  man,  who  was  the  landlord  of  the  Black 
Bull  at  the  time,  and  he  stands  to  it  that  such  was  the 
temper  of  the  irritated  mob,  that  Mr.  Redhead  was  in  real 
danger  of  his  life.  This  man,  however,  planned  an  escape 
for  his  unpopular  inmates.  The  Black  Bull  is  near  the  top 
of  the  long,  steep  Haworth  street,  and  at  the  bottom,  close  by 
the  bridge,  on  the  road  to  Keighley,  is  a  turnpike.  Giving 
directions  to  his  hunted  guests  to  steal  out  at  the  back  door 
(through  which,  probably,  many  a  ne'er-do-weel  has  escaped 
from  good  Mr.  Grimshaw's  horsewhip),  the  landlord  and 
some  of  the  stable  boys  rode  the  horses  belonging  to  the 
party  from  Bradford  backwards  and  forwards  before  hia 
front  door,  among  the  fiercely-expectant  crowd.  Through 
some  opening  between  the  houses,  those  on  the  horses  saw 
Mr.  Redhead  and  his  friends  creeping  along  behind  the 
street ;  and  then,  striking  spurs,  they  dashed  quickly  down 
to  the  turnpike ;  the  obnoxious  clergymen  and  his  friends 
mounted  in  haste,  and  had  sped  some  distance  before  the 
people  found  out  that  their  prey  had  escaped,  and  came  run- 
ning to  the  closed  turnpike  gate. 

This  was  Mr.  Redhead's  last  appearance  at  Haworth  foi 
many  years.  Long  afterwards,  he  came  to  preach  and  in 
his  sermon  to  a  large  and  attentive  congregation,  he  good- 


28  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BROKTE. 

humoured ly  reminded  them  of  the  circumstances  which  I 
have  described.  They  gave  him  a  hearty  welcome,  for  they 
owed  him  no  grudge ;  although  before  they  had  been  ready 
enough  to  stone  him,  in  order  to  maintain  what  they  con- 
sidered to  be  their  rights. 

Into  the  midst  of  this  lawless,  yet  not  unkindly  popula- 
tion, Mr.  Bronte  brought  his  wife  and  six  little  children,  in 
February,  1820.  There  are  those  yet  alive  who  remember 
seven  heavily  laden  carts  lumbering  slowly  up  the  long  stone 
street,  bearing  the  ''  new  parson's  "  household  goods  to  his 
future  abode. 

One  wonders  how  the  bleak  aspect  of  her  new  home — the 
low,  oblong,  stone  parsonage,  high  up,  yet  with  a  still  higher 
back-ground  of  sweeping  moors — struck  on  the  gentle,  deli- 
cate wife,  whose  helath  even  then  was  failing. 


THE   KEY.    TATRICK    BRONTE.  2? 


CHAPTER    IIL 

The  Eev.  Patrick  Bronte  is  a  native  of  the  County  Down  in 
Ireland.  His  father,  Hugh  Bronte,  was  left  an  orphan  at  an 
early  age.  He  came  from  the  south  to  the  north  of  the 
island,  and  settled  in  the  parish  of  Ahaderg,  near  Lough- 
brickland.  There  was  some  family  tradition  that,  humble  as 
Hugh  Bronte's  circumstances  were,  he  was  the  descendant  of 
an  ancient  family.  But  about  this  neither  he  nor  his  de- 
scendants have  cared  to  inquire.  He  made  an  early  mar- 
riage, and  reared  and  educated  ten  children  on  the  proceeds 
of  the  few  acres  of  land  which  he  farmed.  This  large  family 
were  remarkable  for  great  physical  strength,  and  much  per- 
sonal beauty.  Even  in  his  old  age,  Mr.  Bronte  is  a  striking 
looking  man,  above  the  common  height,  with  a  nobly  shaped 
head,  and  erect  carriage,  In  his  youth  he  must  have  been 
unusually  handsome. 

He  was  born  on  Patrickmas  day  (March  17),  1777,  and 
early  gave  tokens  of  extraordinary  quickness  and  intelligence. 
He  had  also  his  full  share  of  ambition;  and  of  his  strong 
sense  and  forethought  there  is  a  proof  in  the  fact,  that,  know- 
ing that  his  father  could  afford  him  no  pecuniary  aid,  and 
that  he  must  depend  upon  his  own  exertions,  he  opened  a 
public  school  at  the  early  age  of  sixteen ;  and  this  mode  of 
living  he  continued  to  follow  for  ^ve  or  six  years.  He  then 
became  a  tutor  in  the  family  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Tighe,  re  tor  of 


30  LIFE   OF   CIIAELoTTE   BEONTE. 

Druingooland  parish.  Thence  he  proceeded  to  St.  John's! 
College,  Cambridge,  where  he  was  entered  in  July,  1802, 
being  at  the  time  five-and- twenty  years  of  age.  After  nearly 
four  years'  residence,  he  obtained  his  B.  A.  degree,  and  was 
ordained  to  a  curacy  in  Essex,  whence  he  removed  into 
Yorkshire.  The  course  of  life  of  which  this  is  the  outline, 
shows  a  powerful  and  remarkable  character,  originating  and 
pursuing  a  purpose  in  a  resolute  and  independent  manner. 
Here  is  a  youth — a  boy  of  sixteen — separating  himself  from 
his  family,  and  determining  to  maintain  himself;  and  that, 
not  in  the  hereditary  manner  by  agricultural  pursuits,  but 
by  the  labour  of  his  brain. 

I  suppose,  from  what  I  have  heard,  that  Mr.  Tighe 
became  strongly  interested  in  his  children's  tutor,  and  may 
have  aided  him,  not  only  in  the  direction  of  his  studies,  but 
in  the  suggestion  of  an  English  university  education,  and  in 
advice  as  to  the  mode  in  which  he  should  obtain  entrance 
there.  Mr.  Bronte  has  now  no  trace  of  his  Irish  origin 
remaining  in  his  speech;  he  never  could  have  shown  his 
Celtic  descent  in  the  straight  Greek  lines  and  long  oval  of 
his  face ;  but  at  five-and-twenty,  fresh  from  the  only  life  he 
had  ever  known,  to  present  himself  at  the  gates  of  St.  John's 
proved  no  little  determination  of  will,  and  scorn  of  ridicule. 

While  at  Cambridge,  he  became  one  of  a  corps  of  volun- 
teers, who  were  then  being  called  out  all  over  the  country  to 
resist  the  apprehended  invasion  by  the  French.  I  have 
heard  him  allude,  in  late  years,  to  Lord  Palmerston  as  one 
who  had  often  been  associated  with  him  then  in  the  mimic 
military  duties  which  they  had  to  perform. 

We  take  him  up  now  settled  as  a  curate  at  Hartshead,  iu 
Yorkshire — far  removed  from  his  birth-place  and  all  his 
Irish  connections ;  with  whom,  indeed,  he  cared  little  to  keep 
up  any  intercourse,  and  whom  he  never,  I  believe,  re-visited 
after  becoming  a  student  at  Cambridge. 


SOCIAL   CUSTOMS    EN"   PENZAKCE.  81 

Hartshead  is  a  very  small  village,  lying  to  the  cast  of 
Iluddersfield  and  Halifax ;  and,  from  its  high  situation — on 
a  mound,  as  it  were,  surrounded  by  a  circular  basin — com 
manding  a  magnificent  view.  Mr.  Bronte  resided  here  for 
five  years  ;  and,  while  the  incumbent  of  Hartshead,  he  wooed 
and  married  Maria  Branwell. 

She  was  the  third  daughter  of  Mr.  Thomas  Branwell, 
merchant,  of  Penzance.  Her  mother's  maiden  name  was 
Carne  :  and,  both  on  father's  and  mother's  side,  the  Branwell 
family  were  sufficiently  well  descended  to  enable  them  to  mix 
in  the  best  society  that  Penzance  then  afibrded.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Branwell  would  be  living — their  family  3f  four  daugh- 
ters and  one  son,  still  children — during  the  existence  of  that 
primitive  state  of  society  which  is  well  described  by  Dr.  Davy 
in  the  life  of  his  brother. 

"  In  the  same  town,  when  the  population  was  about 
2,000  persons,  there  was  only  one  carpet,  the  floors  of  rooms 
were  sprinkled  with  sea-sand,  and  there  was  not  a  single 
silver  fork.^ 

"  At  that  time,  when  our  colonial  possessions  were  very 
limited,  our  army  and  navy  on  a  small  scale,  and  there  was 
comparatively  little  demand  for  intellect,  the  younger  sons 
of  gentlemen  were  often  of  necessity  brought  up  to  some 
trade  or  mechanical  art,  to  which  no  discredit,  or  loss  of 
caste,  as  it  were,  was  attached.  The  eldest  son,  if  not 
allowed  to  remain  an  idle  country  squire,  was  sent  to  Oxford 
or  Cambridge,  preparatory  to  his  engaging  in  one  of  the 
three  liberal  professions  of  divinity,  law,  or  physic;  the 
second  son  was  perhaps  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon  or  apo- 
thecary, or  a  solicitor  ,*  the  third  to  a  pewterer  or  watch- 
maker ;  the  fourth  to  a  packer  or  mercer,  and  so  on,  were 
there  more  to  be  provided  for." 

"  After  their  apprenticeships  were  finished,  the  young 
men  almost  invariably  went  to  London  to  perfect  themselves 


32  LIFE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

in  their  respectiye  trade  or  art :  and  on  their  return  into  the 
country,  when  settled  in  business,  they  were  not  excluded 
from  what  would  now  be  considered  genteel  society.  Visit- 
ing then  was  conducted  differently  from  what  it  is  at  present. 
Dinner-parties  were  almost  unknown,  excepting  at  the  annual 
feast-time.  Christmas,  too,  was  then  a  season  of  peculiar 
indulgence  and  conviviality,  and  a  round  of  entertainments 
was  given,  consisting  of  tea  and  supper.  Excepting  at  theso 
two  periods,  visiting  was  almost  entirely  conlined  to  tea- 
parties,  which  assembled  at  three  o'clock,  broke  up  at  nine, 
and  the  amusement  of  the  evening  was  commonly  some  round 
game  at  cards,  as  Pope  Joan,  or  Commerce.  The  lower 
class  was  then  extremely  ignorant,  and  all  classes  were  very 
superstitious ;  even  the  belief  in  witches  maintained  its 
ground,  and  there  was  an  almost  unbounded  credulity  re- 
specting the  supernatural  and  monstrous.  There  was  scarcely 
a  parish  in  the  Mount's  Bay  that  was  without  a  haunted 
house,  or  a  spot  to  which  some  story  of  supernatural  horror 
was  not  attached.  Even  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  remember  a 
house  in  the  best  street  of  Penzance  which  was  uninhabited 
because  it  was  believed  to  be  haunted,  and  which  young  peo- 
ple walked  by  at  night  at  a  quickened  pace,  and  with  a  beat- 
ing heart.  Amongst  the  middle  and  higher  classes  thera 
was  little  taste  for  literature,  and  still  less  for  science,  and 
their  pursuits  were  rarely  of  a  dignified  or  intellectual  kind. 
Hunting,  shooting,  wrestling,  cock-fighting,  generally  ending 
in  drunkenness,  were  what  they  most  delighted  in.  Smug- 
gling was  carried  on  to  a  great  extent;  and  drunkenness, 
and  a  low  state  of  morals,  were  naturally  associated  with  it. 
Whilst  smuggling  was  the  means  of  acquiring  wealth  to  bold 
and  reckless  adventurers,  drunkenness  and  dissipation  occa- 
fiioned  the  ruin  of  many  respectable  families. 

I    have  given  this  extract  because  I  conceive  it  beara 
some  reference  to  the  life  of  Miss  Eronte,  whose  strong  mind 


THE   BRAKWELL   FAMILY.  33 

and  rivid  imagination  must  have  received  tlieir  first  impres- 
sions either  from  the  servants  (in  that  simple  household, 
almost  friendly  companions  during  the  greater  part  of  the 
day)  retailing  the  traditions  or  the  news  of  Haworth  village ; 
or  from  Mr.  Bronte,  whose  intercourse  with  his  children  ap- 
pears to  have  been  considerably  restrained,  and  whose  life, 
both  in  Ireland  and  at  Cambridge,  had  been  spent  under 
peculiar  circumstances ;  or  from  her  aunt,  Miss  Branwell,  who 
came  to  the  parsonage,  when  Charlotte  was  only  six  or  seven 
years  old,  to  take  charge  of  her  dead  sister's  family.  This 
aunt  was  older  than  Mrs.  Bronte,  and  had  lived  longer  among 
the  Penzance  society,  which  Dr.  Davy  describes.  But  in  the 
Branwell  family  itself,  the  violence  and  irregularity  of  nature 
did  not  exist.  They  were  Methodists,  and,  as  far  as  I  can 
gather,  a  gentle  and  sincere  piety  gave  refinement  and  puritjf 
of  character,  Mr.  Branwell,  the  father,  according  to  his  de- 
scendants' account,  was  a  man  of  musical  talent.  He  and 
his  wife  lived  to  see  all  their  children  grown-up,  and  died 
within  a  year  of  each  other — he  in  1808,  she  in  1809,  when 
their  daughter  Maria  was  twenty-five  or  twenty-six  years  of 
age.  I  have  been  permitted  to  look  over  a  series  of  nine 
letters,  which  were  addressed  by  her  to  Mr.  Bronte,  during 
the  brief  term  of  their  engagement  in  1812.  They  are  full 
of  tender  grace  of  expression,  and  feminine  modesty ;  per- 
vaded by  the  deep  piety  to  which  I  have  alluded  as  a  family 
characteristic.  I  shall  make  one  or  two  extracts  from  them, 
to  show  what  sort  of  a  person  was  the  mother  of  Charlotte 
Bronte  :  but  first,  I  must  state  the  circumstances  under 
which  this  Cornish  lady  met  the  scholar  from  Ahaderg,  near 
Loughbrickland.  In  the  early  summer  of  1812,  when  she 
would  be  twenty-nine,  she  came  to  visit  her  uncle,  the  Eever- 
end  John  Fennel,  who  was  at  that  time  a  clergyman  of  the 
Church  of  England,  living  near  Leeds,  but  who  had  previ 
ously  been  a  Methodist  minister,  Mr.  Bronte  was  the  in 
VOL.  I. — 2* 


34  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

cumbent  of  Hartshead ;  and  had  tlie  reputation  in  tlic  neigli- 
bourhood  of  being  a  very  handsome  fellow,  full  of  Irish 
enthusiasm,  and  with  something  of  an  Irishman's  capability 
of  falling  easily  in  love.  Miss  Branwell  was  extremely 
email  in  person ;  not  pretty,  but  very  elegant,  and  always 
dressed  with  a  quiet  simplicity  of  taste,  which  accorded  well 
%vith  her  general  character,  and  of  which  some  of  the  details 
call  to  mind  the  style  of  dress  preferred  by  her  daughter  for 
her  favourite  heroines.  Mr.  Bronte  was  soon  captivated  by 
the  little,  gentle  creature,  and  this  time  declared  that  it  was 
for  life.  In  her  first  letter  to  him,  dated  August  26th,  she 
seems  almost  surprised  to  find  herself  engaged,  and  alludes 
to  the  short  time  which  she  has  known  him.  In  the  rest 
there  are  touches  reminding  one  of  Juliet's — 

**  But  trust  me,  gentlemen,  I'll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange.* 

There  are  plans  for  happy  pic-nic  parties  to  Kirkstall 
Abbey,  in  the  glowing  September  days,  when  "  Uncle,  Aunt, 
and  Cousin  Jane," — the  last  engaged  to  a  Mr.  Morgan,  an- 
other clergyman — were  of  the  party ;  all  since  dead,  except 
Mr.  Bronte.  There  was  no  opposition  on  the  part  of  any  of 
her  friends  to  her  engagement.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fennel  sanc- 
tioned it,  and  her  brother  and  sisters  in  far-away  Penzance 
appear  fully  to  have  approved  of  it.  In  a  letter  dated  Sep- 
tember 18th,  she  says  : — 

"  For  some  years  I  have  been  perfectly  my  own  mistress, 
subject  to  no  control  whatever ;  so  far  from  it,  that  my  sis- 
ters,  who  are  many  years  older  than  myself,  and  even  my 
dear  mother,  used  to  consult  me  on  every  occasion  of  import- 
ance,  and  scarcely  ever  doubted  the  propriety  of  my  opinions 
and  actions  :  perhaps  you  will  be  ready  to  accuse  me  of  vanity 
in  mentioning  this,  but  you  must  consider  that  I  do  not  boast 
t)f  it.    I  have  many  times  felt  it  a  disadvantage,  and  although, 


MISS  bkanwell's  letters.  35 

I  tliank  God,  it  lias  never  led  me  into  error,  yet,  in  circum- 
stances of  uncertainty  and  doubt,  I  have  deeply  felt  the  want 
of  a  guide  and  instructor."  In  the  same  letter  she  tells  Mr. 
Bronte,  that  she  has  informed  her  sisters  of  her  engagement, 
and  that  she  should  not  see  them  again  so  soon  as  she  had 
intended.  Mr.  Fennel,  her  uncle,  also  writes  to  them  by  the 
Bame  post  in  praise  of  Mr.  Bronte. 

The  journey  from  Penzance  to  Leeds  in  those  days  was 
both  very  long  and  very  expensive  ;  the  lovers  had  not  much 
money  to  spend  in  unnecessary  travelling,  and,  as  Miss  Bran- 
well  had  neither  father  nor  mother  living,  it  appeared  both  a 
discreet  and  seemly  arrangement  that  the  marriage  should 
take  place  from  her  uncle's  house.  There  was  no  reason 
either  why  the  engagement  should  be  prolonged.  They  were 
past  their  first  youth ;  they  had  means  sufficient  for  their 
unambitious  wants ;  the  living  of  Hartshead  is  rated  in  tho 
Clergy  List  at  2021,  per  annum,  and  she  was  in  the  receipt 
of  a  small  annuity  {50Z.  I  have  been  told)  by  the  will  of  her 
father.  So,  at  the  end  of  September,  the  lovers  began  to 
talk  about  taking  a  house,  for  I  suppose  that  Mr.  Bronte  up 
to  that  time  had  been  in  lodgings ;  and  all  went  smoothly 
and  successfully  with  a  view  to  their  marriage  in  the  ensuing 
winter,  until  November,  when  a  misfortune  happened,  which 
she  thus  patiently  and  prettily  describes  : — 

^'  I  suppose  you  never  expected  to  be  much  the  richer  for 
me,  but  I  am  sorry  to  inform  you  that  I  am  still  poorer  than 
I  thought  myself.  I  mentioned  having  sent  for  my  books, 
clothes,  &c.  On  Saturday  evening,  about  the  time  when 
you  were  writing  the  description  of  your  imaginary  ship- 
wreck, I  was  reading  and  feeling  the  effects  of  a  real  one, 
having  then  received  a  letter  from  my  sister,  giving  me  an 
account  of  the  vessel  in  which  she  had  sent  my  box  being 
fitranded  on  the  coast  of  Devonshire^  in  consequence  of  which 
the  box  was  dashed  to  pieces  with  the  violence  of  the  sea, 


36  LIFE   OF   CIIAELOTTE   BRONTE. 

and  all  my  little  property,  with  the  exception  of  a  very  fe\r 
articles,  being  swallowed  tip  in  the  mighty  deep.  If  this 
should  not  prove  the  prelude  to  something  worse  I  shall 
think  little  of  it,  as  it  is  the  first  disastrous  circumstance 
which  has  occurred  since  I  left  my  home." 

The  last  of  these  letters  is  dated  December  the  5th, 
Miss  Branwell  and  her  cousin  intended  to  set  about  making 
the  wedding-cake  in  the  following  week,  so  the  marriage 
could  not  be  far  off.  She  had  been  learning  by  heart  a 
"  pretty  little  hymn  "  of  Mr.  Bronte's  composing ;  and  read- 
ing Lord  Lyttelton's  "Advice  to  a  Lady,"  on  which  she 
makes  some  pertinent  and  just  remarks,  showing  that  she 
thought  as  well  as  read.  And  so  Maria  Branwell  fades  out 
of  sight ;  we  have  no  more  direct  intercourse  with  her ;  we 
hear  of  her  as  Mrs.  Bronte,  but  it  is  as  an  invalid,  not  far 
from  death ;  still  patient,  cheerful  and  pious.  The  writing 
of  these  letters  is  elegant  and  neat ;  while  there  are  allusions 
to  household  occupations — such  as  making  the  wedding-cake 
— there  are  also  allusions  to  the  books  she  has  read,  or  is 
reading,  showing  a  well-cultivated  mind.  Without  having 
any  thing  of  her  daughter's  rare  talents,  Mrs.  Bronte  must 
have  been,  I  imagine,  that  unusual  character,  a  well-balanced 
and  consistent  woman.  The  style  of  the  letters  is  easy  and 
good  ;  as  is  also  that  of  a  paper  from  the  same  hand,  entitled 
"  The  Advantages  of  Poverty  in  Religious  Concerns,"  which 
was  written  rather  later,  with  a  view  to  publication  in  some 
periodical. 

She  was  married,  from  her  uncle's  house,  in  Yorkshire 
on  the  29th  of  December,  1812  ;  the  same  day  was  also  the 
wedding-day  of  her  younger  sister,  Charlotte  Branwell,  in 
distant  Penzance.  I  do  not  think  that  Mrs.  Bronte  ever 
revisited  Cornwall,  but  she  has  left  a  very  pleasant  imprcs- 
sion  on  the  minds  of  those  relations  who  yet  survive ;  they 
speak  of  her  as  *'  their  favourite  aunt  and  one  to  whom  they, 


ME.    BRONTE^S    FAMILY   AND   PAKSONAGE.  37 

as  well  as  all  the  family,  looked  up,  as  a  person  of  talent  and 
great  amiability  of  disposition ;"  and,  again,  as  "  meek  and 
retiring,  while  possessing  more  than  ordinary  talents,  which 
she  inherited  from  her  father,  and  her  piety  was  genuine  and 
unobtrusive." 

Mr.  Bronte  remained  for  five  years  at  Hartshead,  in  the 
parish  of  Dewsbury.  There  he  was  married,  and  his  two 
children,  Maria  and  Elizabeth,  were  born.  At  the  expiration 
of  that  period,  he  had  the  living  of  Thornton,  in  Bradford 
parish.  Some  of  those  great  West  Biding  parishes  are  al- 
most like  bishoprics  for  their  amount  of  population  and  num- 
ber of  churches.  Thornton  church  is  a  little  episcopal  chapel 
of  ease,  rich  in  Nonconformist  monuments,  as  of  Accepted 
Leister  and  his  friend  Dr.  Hall.  The  neighbourhood  is  deso- 
late and  wild  ;  great  tracks  of  bleak  land,  enclosed  by  stone 
dykes,  sweeping  up  Clayton  heights.  The  church  itself  looks 
ancient  and  solitary,  and  as  if  left  behind  by  the  great  stone 
mills  of  a  flourishing  Independent  firm,  and  the  solid  square 
chapel  built  by  the  members  of  that  denomination.  Alto- 
gether not  so  pleasant  a  place  as  Hartshead,  with  its  ample 
outlook  over  cloud-shadowed,  sun-flecked  plain,  and  hill 
rising  beyond  hill  to  form  the  distant  horizon. 

Here,  at  Thornton,  Charlotte  Bronte  was  born,  on  the 
21st  of  April,  1816.  Fast  on  her  heels  followed  Patrick 
Branwell,  Emily  Jaae,  and  Anne.  After  the  birth  of  this 
last  daughter,  Mrs.  Bronte's  health  began  to  decline.  It  is 
hard  work  to  provide  for  the  little  tender  wants  of  many 
young  children  where  the  means  are  but  limited.  The  neces- 
saries of  food  and  clothing  are  much  more  easily  supplied 
than  the  almost  equal  necessaries  of  attendance,  care,  sooth- 
ing, amusement,  and  sympathy.  Maria  Bronte,  the  eldest  of 
six,  could  only  have  been  a  few  months  more  than  six  years 
old,  when  Mr.  Bronte  removed  *to  Haworth,  on  February 
25th,  1820.     Those  who  knew  her  then,  describe  her  as 


88  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

grave,  tliouglitful,  and  quiet,  to  a  degree  far  beyond  her 
years.  Her  childhood  was  no  childhood  ;  the  cases  are  rare 
in  which  the  possessors  of  great  gifts  have  known  the  bless- 
ings of  that  careless  happy  time  ;  their  unusual  powers  stir 
within  them,  and  instead  of  the  natural  life  of  perception,— 
the  objective,  as  the  Germans  call  it — they  begin  the  deeper 
life  of  reflection — the  subjective. 

Little  Maria  Bronte  was  delicate  and  small  in  appear- 
ance, which  seemed  to  give  greater  effect  to  her  wonderful 
precocity  of  intellect.  She  must  have  been  her  mother's 
companion  and  helpmate  in  many  a  household  and  nursery 
experience,  for  Mr.  Bronte  was,  of  course,  much  engaged  in 
his  study ;  and  besides,  he  was  not  naturally  fond  of  children, 
and  felt  their  frequent  appearance  on  the  scene  as  a  drag 
both  on  his  wife's  strength,  and  as  an  interruption  to  thu 
comfort  of  the  household. 

Ilaworth  Parsonage  is — as  I  mentioned  in  the  first  chap- 
ter— an  oblong  stone  house,  facing  down  the  hill  on  which 
tlie  village  stands,  and  with  the  front  door  right  opposite  to 
the  western  door  of  the  church,  distant  about  a  hundred 
yards.  Of  this  space  twenty  yards  or  so  in  depth  are  occu- 
pied by  the  grassy  garden,  which  is  scarcely  wider  than  the 
house.  The  grave-yard  goes  round  house  and  garden,  on  all 
sides  but  one.  The  house  consists  of  four  rooms  on  each 
floor,  and  is  two  stories  high.  When  the  Brontes  took  pos- 
session, they  made  the  larger  parlour,  to  the  left  of  the  en- 
trance, the  family  sitting-room,  while  that  on  the  right  was 
appropriated  to  Mr.  Bronte  as  a  study.  Behind  this  was  tho 
kitchen ;  behind  the  former,  a  sort  of  flagged  store-room. 
Up-stairs  were  four  bed-chambers  of  similar  size,  with  the 
addition  of  a  small  apartment  over  the  passage,  or  *'  lobby  " 
as  we  call  it  in  the  north.  This  was  to  the  front,  the  stair- 
case going  up  right  opposite  to  the  entrance.  There  is  tha 
pleasant  old  fashion  of  window  seats  all  through  the  nouse  \ 


LIFE   AT   HAWOPwTII.  39 

and  one  can  see  that  tlie  parsonage  was  built  in  the  days 
when  wood  was  plentiful,  as  the  massive  stair-bannisters,  and 
the  wainscots,  and  the  heavy  window  frames  testify. 

This  little  extra  up  stairs  room  was  appropriated  to  the 
children.  Small  as  it  was,  it  was  not  called  a  nursery ;  in- 
deed, it  had  not  the  comfort  of  a  fireplace  in  it ;  the  servants 
—two  rough  affectionate  warm-hearted,  wasteful  sisters,  who 
cannot  now  speak  of  the  family  without  tears — called  the 
room  the  "  children's  study."  The  age  of  the  eldest  student 
was  perhaps  by  this  time  seven. 

The  people  in  Haworth  were  none  of  them  very  poor. 
Many  of  them  were  employed  in  the  neighbouring  worsted 
mills ;  a  few  were  mill-owners  and  manufacturers  in  a  small 
way  ;  there  were  also  some  shopkeepers  for  the  humbler  and 
every-day  wants ;  but  for  medical  advice,  for  stationery, 
books,  law,  dress,  or  dainties,  the  inhabitants  had  to  go  to 
Keighley.  There  were  several  Sunday-schools ;  the  Baptists 
had  taken  the  lead  in  instituting  them,  the  Wesleyans  had 
followed,  the  Church  of  England  had  brought  up  the  rear. 
Good  Mr.  Grimshaw,  Wesley's  friend,  had  built  an  humble 
Methodist  chapel,  but  it  stood  close  to  the  road  leading  on 
to  the  moor ;  the  Baptists  then  raised  a  place  of  worship, 
with  the  distinction  of  being  a  few  yards  back  from  the  high- 
way;  and  the  Methodists  have  since  thought  it  well  to  erect 
another  and  a  larger  chapel,  still  more  retired  from  the  road. 
Mr.  Bronte  was  ever  on  kind  and  friendly  terms  with  each 
denomination  as  a  body  ;  but  from  individuals  in  the  village 
the  family  stood  aloof,  unless  some  direct  service  was  re- 
quired, from  the  first.  "  They  kept  themselves  very  close,'' 
is  the  account  given  by  those  who  remember  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bronte's  coming  amongst  them.  I  believe  many  of  the 
Yorkshiremen  would  object  to  the  system  of  parochial  visit- 
ing ;  their  surly  independence  would  revolt  from  the  idea  of 
any  one  having  a  right,  from  his  office,  to  inquire,  to  counsel, 


40  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

or  to  admonish  tbem.  The  old  hill-spirit  lingers  in  them, 
which  coined  the  rhyme,  inscribed  on  the  under  part  of  one 
of  the  seats  in  the  Sedilia  of  Whalley  Abbey,  not  many  mile« 
from  Haworth, 

"  Who  mells  wi*  what  another  does 
Had  best  go  home  and  shoe  his  goose." 

I  asked  an  inhabitant  of  a  district  close  to  Haworth,  what 
sort  of  a  clergyman  they  had  at  the  church  which  he  at- 
tended. 

"  A  rare  good  one,"  said  he ;  "  he  minds  his  own  busi- 
ness, and  ne'er  troubles  himself  with  ours." 

Mr.  Bronte  was  faithful  in  visiting  the  sick,  and  all  those 
who  sent  for  him,  and  diligent  in  attendance  at  the  schools ; 
and  so  was  his  daughter  Charlotte  too ;  but,  cherishing  and 
valuing  privacy  themselves,  they  were  perhaps  over-delicate 
in  not  intruding  upon  the  privacy  of  others. 

From  their  first  going  to  Haworth,  their  walks  were  di- 
rected rather  out  towards  the  heathery  moors,  sloping  up- 
wards behind  the  parsonage,  than  towards  the  long  descend- 
ing village  street.  A  good  old  woman,  who  came  to  nurse 
Mrs.  Bronte  in  the  illness — an  internal  cancer — which  grew 
and  gathered  npon  her,  not  many  months  after  her  arrival  at 
Haworth,  tells  me  that  at  that  time  the  six  little  creatures 
used  to  walk  out,  hand  in  hand,  towards  the  glorious  wild 
moors,  which  in  after  days  they  loved  so  passionately ;  the 
elder  ones  taking  thoughtful  care  for  the  toddling  wee  things. 

They  were  grave  and  silent  beyond  their  years;  sub 
dued,  probably,  by  the  presence  of  serious  illness  in  the 
house ;  for,  at  the  time  which  my  informant  speaks  of,  Mrs. 
Bronte  was  confined  to  the  bed-room  from  which  she  never 
eame  forth  alive.  "  You  would  not  have  known  there  was  a 
child  in  the  house,  they  were  such  still,  noiseless,  good  little 
creatures,     Maria    would    shut    herself    up   "  (Maria,   bu* 


THE   LITTLE   BRONTES.  41 

eevcn  !)  "  in  the  children's  study  with  a  newspaper,  and  be 
able  to  tell  one  every  thing  when  she  came  out ;  debates  in 
parliament,  and  I  don't  know  what  all.  She  was  as  good  as 
a  mother  to  her  sisters  and  brother.  But  there  never  were 
such  good  children.  I  used  to  think  them  spiritless,  they 
were  so  different  to  any  children  I  had  ever  seen.  In  part, 
I  set  it  down  to  a  fancy  Mr.  Bronte  had  of  not  letting  them 
have  flesh-meat  to  eat.  It  was  from  no  wish  for  saving,  for 
there  was  plenty  and  even  waste  in  the  house,  with  young 
servants  and  no  mistress  to  see  after  them  ;  but  he  thought 
that  children  should  be  brought  up  simply  and  hardily  :  so 
they  had  nothing  but  potatoes  for  their  dinner ;  but  they 
never  seemed  to  wish  for  anything  else ;  they  were  good  little 
creatures.     Emily  was  the  prettiest." 

Mrs.  Bronte  was  the  same  patient,  cheerful  person  as 
we  have  seen  her  formerly ;  very  ill,  suffering  great  pain, 
but  seldom  if  ever  complaining  ;  at  her  better  times  begging 
her  nurse  to  raise  her  in  bed  to  let  her  see  her  clean  the 
grate,  "  because  she  did  it  as  it  was  done  in  Cornwall ;  "  de- 
votedly fond  of  her  husband,  who  warmly  repaid  her  affec- 
tion, and  suffered  no  one  else  to  take  the  night-nursing ; 
but,  according  to  my  informant,  the  mother  was  not  very 
anxious  to  see  much  of  her  children,  probably  because  the 
sight  of  them,  knowing  how  soon  they  were  to  be  left  mo- 
therless, would  have  agitated  her  too  much.  So  the  little 
things  clung  quietly  together,  for  their  father  was  busy  in 
his  study  and  in  his  parish,  or  with  their  mother,  and  they 
took  their  meals  alone  ;  sat  reading,  or  whispering  low,  in 
the  **  children's  study,"  or  wandered  out  on  the  hill-side, 
hand  in  hand. 

The  ideas  of  Rousseau  and  Mr.  Bay  on  education  had 

,  filtered  down  through  many  classes,  and  spread  themselvea 

widely  out.     I  imagine,  Mr.  Bronte  must  have  formed  some 

of  his  opinions  on  the  management  of  children  from  these 


42  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

two  theorists.  His  practice  was  not  half  so  wild  or  extra- 
ordinary as  that  to  which  an  aunt  of  mine  was  subjected  by 
a  disciple  of  Mr.  Day's.  She  had  been  taken  by  this  gen- 
tleman and  his  wife,  to  live  with  them  as  their  adopted 
child,  perhaps  about  five -and- twenty-years  before  the  time 
of  which  I  am  writing.  They  were  wealthy  people  and 
kind-hearted,  but  her  food  and  clothing  were  of  the  very 
simplest  and  rudest  description,  on  Spartan  principles.  A 
healthy  merry  child  she  did  not  much  care  for  dress  or  eating ; 
but  the  treatment  which  she  felt  as  a  real  cruelty  was  this. 
They  had  a  carriage,  in  which  she  and  the  favourite  dog 
were  taken  an  airing  on  alternate  days;  the  creature  whose 
turn  it  was  to  be  left  at  home  being  tossed  in  a  blanket — an 
operation  which  my  aunt  especially  dreaded.  Her  affright 
at  the  tossing  was  probably  the  reason  why  it  was  persevered 
in.  Dressed-up  ghosts  had  become  common,  and  she  did 
not  care  for  them,  so  the  blanket  exercise  was  to  be  the  next 
mode  of  hardeniog  her  nerves.  It  is  well  known  that  Mr. 
Day  broke  off  his  intention  of  marrying  Sabrina,  the  girl 
whom  he  had  educated  for  this  purpose,  because,  within  a 
few  weeks  of  the  time  fixed  for  the  wedding,  she  was  guilty 
of  the  frivolity,  while  on  a  visit  from  home,  of  wearing  thin 
sleeves.  Yet  Mr.  Day  and  my  aunt's  relations  were  benev- 
olent people,  only  strongly  imbued  with  the  crotchet  that  Dy 
a  system  of  training  might  be  educed  the  hardihood  and 
simplicity  of  the  ideal  savage,  forgetting  the  terrible  isolation 
of  feelings  and  habits  which  their  pupils  would  experience, 
in  the  future  life  which  they  must  pass  among  the  corrup- 
tions and  refinements  of  civilization. 

Mr.  Bronte  wished  to  make  his  children  hardy,  and  in- 
different to  the  pleasures  of  eating  and  dress.  In  the  latter 
he  succeeded,  as  far  as  regarded  his  daughters ;  but  he  went 
at  his  object  with  imsparing  earnestness  of  purpose.  Mrs. 
Bvontti'si  nurse  told  me  that  one  day  when  the  children  had 


PRACTICAL    LESSONS.  43 

been  out  on  the  moors,  and  rain  had  come  on,  she  thought 
their  feet  would  be  wet,  and  accordingly  she  rummaged  out 
some  coloured  boots  which  been  given  to  them  by  a  friend 
— the  Mr.  Morgan  who  married  "  Cousin  Jane,"  she  be- 
lieves. These  little  pairs  she  ranged  round  the  kitchen  fire 
to  warm ;  but,  when  the  children  came  back,  the  boots  were 
nowhere  to  be  found ;  only  a  very  strong  odour  of  burnt 
leather  was  perceived.  Mr.  Bronte  had  come  in  and  seen 
them  ;  they  were  too  gay  and  luxurious  for  his  children,  and 
would  foster  a  love  of  dress ;  so  he  had  put  them  into  the  fire. 
He  spared  nothing  that  offended  his  antique  simplicity. 
Long  before  this,  some  one  had  given  Mrs.  Bronte  a  silk 
gown ;  either  the  make,  the  colour,  or  the  material,  was  not 
according  to  his  notions  of  consistent  propriety,  and  Mrs. 
Bronte  in  consequence  never  wore  it.  But,  for  all  that,  she 
kept  it  treasured  up  in  her  drawers,  which  were  generally 
locked.  One  day,  however,  while  in  the  kitchen,  she  re- 
membered that  she  had  left  the  key  in  her  drawer,  and, 
hearing  Mr.  Bronte  up-stairs,  she  augured  some  ill  to  her 
dress,  and,  running  up  in  haste,  she  found  it  cut  into  shreds. 
His  strong,  passionate,  Irish  nature  was,  in  general,  com- 
pressed down  with  resolute  stoicism ;  but  it  was  there  not- 
withstanding all  his  philosophic  calm  and  dignity  of  de- 
meanour. He  did  not  speak  when  he  was  annoyed  or  dis- 
pleased, but  worked  off  his  volcanic  wrath  by  firing  pistols 
out  of  the  back-door  in  rapid  succession.  Mrs.  Bronte, 
lying  in  bed  up-stairs,  would  hear  the  quick  explosions,  and 
know  that  something  had  gone  wrong  ;  but  her  sweet  nature 
thought  invariably  of  the  bright  side,  and  she  would  say, 
"  Ought  I  not  to  be  thankful  that  he  never  gave  me  an 
angry  word  ?"  Now  and  then  his  anger  took  a  different 
form,  but  still  speechless.  Once  he  got  the  hearth-rug,  and 
stuffing  it  up  the  grate,  deliberately  set  it  on  fire,  and  ro- 
wained  in  the  room  in  spite  of  the  stench,  until  it  had  smoul- 


i4  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

dered  and  shrivelled  away  into  uselessness.  Another  tiino 
he  took  some  chairs,  and  sawed  away  at  the  backs  till  they 
were  reduced  to  the  condition  of  stools. 

He  was  an  active  walker,  stretching  away  over  the  moors 
for  many  miles,  noting  in  his  mind  all  natural  signs  of  wind 
and  weather,  and  keenly  observing  all  the  wild  creatures 
that  came  and  went  in  the  loneliest  sweeps  of  the  hills.  He 
has  seen  eagles  stooping  low  in  search  of  food  for  their  young; 
no  eagle  is  ever  seen  on  those  mountain  slopes  now.  He 
fearlessly  took  whatever  side  in  local  or  national  politics  ap- 
peared to  him  right.  In  the  days  of  the  Luddites,  he  had 
been  for  the  peremptory  interference  of  the  law,  at  a  time 
when  no  magistrate  could  be  found  to  act,  and  all  the  pro- 
perty of  the  West  Kiding  was  in  terrible  danger.  He  be- 
came unpopular  there  among  the  mill-workers,  and  he  es- 
teemed his  life  unsafe  if  he  took  his  long  and  lonely  walks 
unarmed;  so  he  began  the  habit,  which  has  continued  to 
this  day,  of  invariably  carrying  a  loaded  pistol  about  with 
him.  It  lay  on  his  dressing-table  with  his  watch  ;  with  his 
watch  it  was  put  on  in  the  morning ;  with  his  watch  it  was 
taken  off  at  night.  Many  years  later,  during  his  residence 
at  Haworth,  there  was  a  strike ;  the  hands  in  the  neighbour- 
hood felt  themselves  aggrieved  by  the  masters,  and  refused 
to  work ;  Mr.  Bronte  thought  they  had  been  unjustly  and 
unfairly  treated,  and  he  assisted  them  by  all  the  means  in 
his  power  to  "  keep  the  wolf  from  their  doors,"  and  avoid 
the  incubus  of  debt.  Several  of  the  more  influential  inhab- 
itants of  Haworth  were  mill-owners ;  they  remonstrated 
pretty  sharply  with  him,  but  he  believed  that  his  conduct 
was  right,  and  persevered  in  it.  His  opinions  might  be  often 
both  wild  and  erroneous,  his  principles  of  action  eccentric 
and  strange,  his  views  of  life  partial,  and  almost  misanthro- 
pical ;  but  not  one  opinion  that  he  held  could  be  stirred  or 
modified  by  any  worldly  motive ;  he  acted  up  to  his  princi* 


charlotte's  mother.  45 

pies  of  action  ;  and,  if  any  touch  of  misanthropy  mingled  with 
his  view  of  mankind  in  general,  his  conduct  to  the  individ- 
uals who  came  in  personal  contact  with  him  did  not  agree 
with  such  view.  It  is  true  that  he  had  strong  and  vehe- 
ment prejudices,  and  was  obstinate  in  maintaining  them,  and 
that  he  was  not  dramatic  enough  in  his  perceptions  to  see 
how  miserable  others  might  be  in  a  life  that  to  him  was  all- 
sufficient.  But  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  able  to  harmonize  points 
of  character,  and  account  for  them,  and  bring  them  all  into 
one  consistent  and  intelligible  whole.  The  farLily  with 
whom  I  have  now  to  do  shot  their  roots  down  deeper  than 
I  can  penetrate.  I  cannot  measure  them,  much  less  is  it  for 
me  to  judge  them.  I  have  named  these  instances  of  eccen- 
tricity in  the  father  because  I  hold  the  knowledge  of  them 
to  be  necessary  for  a  right  understanding  of  the  life  of  his 
daughter. 

Mrs.  Bronte  died  in  September,  1821,  and  the  lives  of 
those  quiet  children  must  have  become  quieter  and  lonelier 
stilL  Charlotte  tried  hard,  in  after  years,  to  recall  the  re- 
membrance of  her  mother,  and  could  bring  back  two  or  three 
pictures  of  her.  One  was  when,  sometime  in  the  evening 
light,  she  had  been  playing  with  her  little  boy,  Patrick 
Branwell,  in  the  parlour  of  Haworth  Parsonage.  But  the 
recollections  of  four  or  five  years  old  are  of  a  very  fragment- 
ary character. 

Owing  to  some  illness  of  the  digestive  organs,  Mr.  Bronte 
was  obliged  to  be  very  careful  about  his  diet;  and,  in  order 
to  avoid  temptation,  and  possibly  to  have  the  quiet  necessary 
for  digestion,  he  had  begun,  before  his  wife's  death,  to  take 
his  dinner  alone, — a  habit  which  he  always  retained.  He 
did  not  require  companionship,  therefore  he  did  not  seek  it, 
either  in  his  walks,  or  in  his  daily  life.  The  quiet  regularity 
of  his  domestic  hours  was  only  broken  in  upon  by  church- 
Wardens,  and  visitors  on  parochial  business ;  and  sometimes 


4:6  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

by  a  nelglibouring  clergyman,  who  came  down  tlie  liills,  across 
the  moors,  to  mount  up  again  to  Haworth  Parsonage,  and 
spend  an  evening  there.  But,  owing  to  Mrs.  Bronte's  death 
so  soon  after  her  husband  had  removed  into  the  district,  and 
also  to  the  distances,  and  the  bleak  country  to  be  traversed, 
the  wives  of  these  clerical  friends  did  not  accompany  their 
husbands ;  and  the  daughters  grew  up  out  of  childhood  into 
girlhood,  bereft,  in  a  singular  manner,  of  all  such  society  as 
would  have  been  natural  to  their  age,  sex,  and  station. 
There  was  one  family  residing  near  Haworth  who  had  been 
remarkably  attentive  and  kind  to  Mrs.  Bronte  in  her  illness, 
and  who  had  paid  the  children  the  attention  of  asking  them 
occasionally  to  tea;  and  as  the  story  connected  with  this 
family,  and  which,  I  suspect,  dissolved  their  intercourse  with 
their  neighbours,  made  a  deep  impression  on  Charlotte's  mind 
in  her  early  girlhood,  I  may  as  well  relate  it  here.  It  will 
serve  as  a  specimen  of  the  wild  stories  afloat  in  an  isolated 
village,  for  as  to  its  truth  in  minor  particulars,  I  will  not 
vouch ;  no  more  did  she,  the  principal  event  having  occurred 
when  she  was  too  young  to  understand  its  full  import,  and 
the  tale  having  been  heard  with  the  addition,  probably,  of 
the  whispered  exaggerations  of  the  uneducated.  The  family 
were  Dissenters,  professing  some  rather  rigid  form  of  religion. 
The  father  was  a  woollen  manufacturer  and  moderately 
wealthy ;  at  any  rate,  their  style  of  living  appeared  "  grand  " 
to  the  simple  children  who  bounded  their  ideas  by  the  frugal 
habits  of  the  parsonage.  These  people  had  a  green-house, 
the  only  one  in  the  neighbourhood ;  a  cumbrous  building;  with 
more  wood  and  wall  than  glass,  situated  in  a  garden  which 
was  divided  from  the  house  by  the  high  road  to  Haworth. 
They  had  a  large  family;  and  one  of  the  elder  daughters 
was  married  to  a  wealthy  manufacturer  "beyond  Keighley;'* 
she  was  near  her  confinement,  when  she  begged  that  a  favourite 
young  sister  might  go  and  pay  her  a  visit,  and  remain  with 


\ 


i1 

her  till  her  baby  was  born.  The  request  was  complied  with ; 
the  young  girl — fifteen  or  sixteen  years  of  age — went.  She 
came  home,  after  some  weeks  spent  in  her  brother-in-law's 
house,  ill  and  dispirited.  Inquiries  were  made  of  her  by 
her  parents,  and  it  was  discovered  that  she  had  been  seduced 
by  her  sister's  wealthy  husband ;  and  that  the  consequences 
of  this  wickedness  would  soon  become  apparent.  Her  angry 
and  indignant  father  shut  her  up  in  her  room,  until  he  could 
decide  how  to  act ;  her  elder  sisters  flouted  at  and  scorned 
her.  Only  her  mother,  and  she  was  reported  to  be  a  stern 
woman,  had  some  pity  on  her.  The  tale  went,  that  passers 
along  the  high-road  at  night  time  saw  the  mother  and  young 
daughter  walking  in  the  garden,  weeping,  long  after  the 
household  were  gone  to  bed.  Nay,  more ;  it  was  whispered 
that  they  walked  and  wept  there  still,  when  Miss  Bronte  told 
me  the  tale — though  both  had  long  mouldered  in  their 
graves.  The  wild  whisperers  of  this  story  added,  that  the 
cruel  father,  maddened  perhaps  by  the  disgrace  which  had 
fallen  upon  a  "  religious  "  family,  oJGfered  a  sum  of  money  to 
any  one  who  would  marry  his  poor  fallen  daughter ;  that  a 
husband  was  found,  who  bore  her  away  from  Haworth,  and 
broke  her  heart,  so  that  she  died  while  even  yet  a  child. 

Such  deep  passionate  resentment  would  have  seemed  not 
unnatural  in  a  man  who  took  a  stern  pride  in  his  character 
for  religious  morality;  but  the  degrading  part,  after  all,  was 
this.  The  remaining  members  of  the  family,  elder  sisters 
even,  went  on*  paying  visits  at  their  wealthy  brother-in-law's 
house,  as  if  his  sin  was  not  a  hundred-fold  more  scarlet  than 
the  poor  young  girl's,  whose  evil-doing  had  been  so  hardly 
resented,  and  so  coarsely  hidden.  The  strong  feeling  of  the 
country-side  still  holds  the  descendants  of  this  family  as 
accursed.     They  fail  in  business,  or  they  fail  in  health. 

At  this  house,  I  believe,  the  little  Brontes  paid  theii 
only  visits ;  and  these  visits  ceased  before  long. 


4:8  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

But  the  children  did  not  want  society.  To  small  infan- 
tine gaieties  they  were  unaccustomed.  They  were  all  in  all 
to  each  other.  I  do  not  suppose  that  there  ever  was  a  fam- 
ily more  tenderly  bound  to  each  other.  Maria  read 
the  newspapers,  and  reported  intelligence  to  her  younger 
eisters  which  it  is  wonderful  they  could  take  an  interest  in. 
But  I  suspect  that  they  had  no  "  children's  books,"  and  their 
eager  minds  "  browzed  undisturbed  among  the  wholesome 
pasturage  of  English  literature,"  as  Charles  Lamb  expresses 
it.  The  servants  of  the  household  appear  to  have  been 
much  impressed  with  the  little  Brontes'  extraordinary 
cleverness.  In  a  letter  which  I  had  from  him  on  this  sub- 
ject, their  father  writes : — "  The  servants  often  said  they 
had  never  seen  such  a  clever  little  child  "  (as  Charlotte), 
"  and  that  they  were  obliged  to  be  on  their  guard  as  to  what 
they  said  and  did  before  her.  Yet  she  and  the  servants 
always  lived  on  good  terms  with  each  other." 

These  servants  are  yet  alive ;  elderly  women  residing  in 
Bradford.  They  retain  a  faithful  and  fond  recollection  of 
Charlotte  and  speak  of  her  unvarying  kindness  from  the 
*Hime  when  she  was  ever  such  a  little  child!"  when  she 
would  not  rest  till  she  had  got  the  old  disused  cradle  sent 
from  the  parsonage  to  the  house  where  the  parents  of  one  of 
them  lived,  to  serve  for  a  little  infant  sister.  They  tell  of 
one  long  series  of  kind  and  thoughtful  actions  from  this 
early  period  to  the  last  weeks  of  Charlotte  Bronte's  life ; 
and,  though  she  had  left  her  place  many  jears  ago,  one  of 
these  former  servants  went  over  from  Bradford  to  Haworth 
on  purpose  to  see  Mr.  Bronte,  and  off'er  him  her  true  sym- 
pathy when  his  last  child  died.  There  might  not  be  many 
to  regard  the  Brontes  with  affection,  but  those  who  once 
loved  them,  loved  them  long  and  well. 

I  return  to  the  father's  letter.     He  says  : — 

**  When  mere  children,  as  soon  as  they  could  read  and  write, 


MR.  bkonte's  letter.  4.9 

Charlotte  and  her  brothers  and  sisters  used  to  invent  and 
act  little  plays  of  their  own,  in  which  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton, my  daughter  Charlotte's  hero,  was  sure  to  come  off 
conqueror;  when  a  dispute  would  not  unfrequently  arise 
amongst  them  regarding  the  comparative  merits  of  him, 
Buonaparte,  Hannibal,  and  Caesar.  When  the  argument  got 
warm,  and  rose  to  its  height,  as  their  mother  was  then  dead, 
I  had  sometimes  to  come  in  as  arbitrator,  and  settle  the 
dispute  according  to  the  best  of  my  judgment.  Generally, 
in  the  management  of  these  concerns,  I  frequently  thought 
that  I  discovered  signs  of  rising  talent,  which  I  had  seldom 
or  never  before  seen  in  any  of  their  age A  circum- 
stance now  occurs  to  my  mind  which  I  may  as  well  mention. 
When  my  children  were  very  young,  when,  as  far  as  I  can 
remember,  the  oldest  was  about  ten  years  of  age,  and  the 
youngest  about  four,  thinking  they  knew  more  than  I  had 
yet  discovered,  in  order  to  make  them  speak  with  less  timid- 
ity, I  deemed  that  if  they  were  put  under  a  sort  of  cover  I 
might  gain  my  end ;  and  happening  to  have  a  mask  in  the 
house,  I  told  them  all  to  stand  and  speak  boldly  from  under 
cover  of  the  mask. 

"  I  began  with  the  youngest  (Anne,  afterwards  Acton 
Bell),  and  asked  what  a  child  like  her  most  wanted ;  she 
answered,  *  Age  and  experience.'  I  asked  the  next  (Emily, 
afterwards  Ellis  Bell),  what  I  had  best  do  with  her  brother 
Branwell,  who  was  sometimes  a  naughty  boy ;  she  answered, 
*  Reason  with  him,  and  when  he  won't  listen  to  reason,  whip 
Iiim.'  I  asked  Branwell  what  was  the  best  way  of  knowing 
the  difference  between  the  intellects  of  men  and  women ;  he 
answered,  '  By  considering  the  difference  between  them  as  to 
their  bodies.'  I  then  asked  Charlotte  what  was  the  best 
book  in  the  world ;  she  answered,  *  The  Bible.'  And  what 
was  the  next  best ;  she  answered,  ^  The  Book  of  Nature,' 
I  then  asked  the  next  what  was  the  best  mode  of  education 

VOL.  I — 3 


60  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

for  a  woman  ;  she  answered,  '  That  which  would  make  hei 
rule  her  house  well.'  Lastly  I  asked  the  oldest  what  waa 
the  best  mode  of  spending  time ;  she  answered,  *  By  laying 
it  out  in  preparation  for  a  happy  eternity.'  I  may  not  have 
given  precisely  their  words,  but  I  have  nearly  done  so,  as 
they  made  a  deep  and  lasting  impression  on  my  memory. 
The  substance,  however,  was  exactly  what  I  have  stated. 

The  strange  and  quaint  simplicity  of  the  mode  taken  by 
the  father  to  ascertain  the  hidden  characters  of  his  children, 
and  the  tone  and  character  of  these  questions  and  answers, 
show  the  curious  education  which  was  made  by  the  circum- 
stances surrounding  the  Brontes.  They  knew  no  other 
children.  They  knew  no  other  modes  of  thought  than  what 
were  suggested  to  them  by  the  fragments  of  clerical  conver- 
sation which  they  overheard  in  the  parlour,  or  the  subjects 
of  village  and  local  interest  which  they  heard  discussed  in 
the  kitchen.  Each  had  their  own  strong  characteristic 
flavour. 

They  took  a  vivid  interest  in  the  public  characters,  and 
the  local  and  foreign  politics  discussed  in  the  newspapers. 
Long  before  Maria  Bronte  died,  at  the  age  of  eleven,  her 
father  used  to  say  he  could  converse  with  her  on  any  of  the 
leading  topics  of  the  day  with  as  much  freedom  and  pleasure 
as  with  any  grown-up  person. 


,  MISS   BRANWELL   AT   HAWOKTH.  51 


CHAPTEH    IV. 

About  a  yeiir  after  Mrs.  Bronte's  death,  one  of  her  eldei 
sisters  came  from  Penzance  to  superintend  her  brother-in- 
law's  household,  and  look  after  his  children.  Miss  Bran- 
well  was,  I  believe,  a  kindly  and  conscientious  woman,  with 
a  good  deal  of  character,  but  with  the  somewhat  narrow 
ideas  natural  to  one  who  had  spent  nearly  all  her  life  in  the 
same  place.  She  had  strong  prejudices,  and  soon  took  a  dis- 
taste to  Yorkshire.  From  Penzance,  where  plants  which  we 
in  the  north  call  greenhouse  flowers  grow  in  great  profusion > 
and  without  any  shelter  even  in  the  winter,  and  where  the 
soft  warm  climate  allows  the  inhabitants,  if  so  disposed,  to 
live  pretty  constantly  in  the  open  air,  it  was  a  great  change 
for  a  lady  considerably  past  forty  to  come  and  take  up  her 
abode  in  a  place  where  neither  flowers  nor  vegetables  would 
flourish,  and  where  a  tree  of  even  moderate  dimensions  might 
be  hunted  for  far  and  wide ;  where  the  snow  lay  long  and 
late  on  the  moors,  stretching  bleakly  and  barely  far  up  from 
the  dwelling  which  was  henceforward  to  be  her  home ;  and 
where  often,  on  autumnal  or  winter  nights,  the  four  winds 
of  heaven  seemed  to  meet  and  rage  together,  tearing  round 
the  house  as  if  they  were  wild  beasts  striving  to  find  an  en- 
trance. She  missed  the  small  round  of  cheerful,  social 
visiting  perpetually  going  on  in  a  country  town  ;  she  missed 
the  friends  she  had  known  from  her  childhood,  some  of  whom 


52  LIFE  OF  CHAKLOTTE  BKONTE. 

had  been  her  parents'  friends  before  they  were  hers ;  she 
disliked  many  of  the  customs  of  the  place,  and  particularly 
dreaded  the  cold  damp  arising  from  the  flag  floors  in  the 
passages  and  parlours  of  Haworth  Parsonage.  The  stairs, 
too,  I  believe,  are  made  of  stone ;  and  no  wonder,  when 
ctone  quarries  are  near,  and  trees  are  far  to  seek.  I  have 
heard  that  Miss  Branwell  always  went  about  the  house  in 
pattens,  clicking  up  and  down  the  stairs,  from  her  dread 
of  catching  cold.  For  the  same  reason,  in  the  later  years 
of  her  life,  she  passed  nearly  all  her  time,  and  took  most  of 
her  meals,  in  her  bed-room.  The  children  respected  her, 
and  had  that  sort  of  afi*ection  for  her  which  is  generated  by 
esteem  ;  but  I  do  not  think  they  every  freely  loved  her.  It 
was  a  severe  trial  for  any  one  at  her  time  of  life  to  change 
neighbourhood  and  habitation  so  entirely  as  she  did ;  and  the 
greater  her  merit. 

I  do  not  know  whether  Miss  Branwell  taught  her  nieces 
any  thing  besides  sewing,  and  the  household  arts  in  which 
Charlotte  afterwards  was  such  an  adept.  Their  regular  les- 
sons were  said  to  their  father ;  and  they  were  always  in  the 
habit  of  picking  up  an  immense  amount  of  miscellaneous  in- 
formation for  themselves.  But  a  year  or  so  before  this  time, 
a  schooL  had  been  begun  in  the  North  of  England  for  the 
daughters  of  clergymen.  The  place  was  Cowan's  Bridge,  a 
small  hamlet  on  the  coacli-road  between  Leeds  and  Kendal, 
and  thus  easy  of  access  from  Haworth,  as  the  coach  ran  daily, 
and  one  of  its  stages  was  at  Keighley.  The  yearly  expense 
for  each  pupil  (according  to  the  entrance-rules  given  in  the 
Report  for  1842,  and  I  believe  they  had  not  been  increased 
since  the  establishment  of  the  schools  in  1823)  was  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"  Eule  11.  The  terms  for  clothing,  lodging,  boarding, 
and  educating,  are  14Z.  a  year ;  half  to  be  paid  in  advance, 
when  the  pupijs  are  sent ;  and  also  11.  entrance  money,  for 


COWAN'S    BRIDGE  (lOWOOD)    SCHOOL.  53 

the  use  of  books,  &c.  The  system  of  education  comprehends 
history,  geography,  the  use  of  the  globes,  grammar,  writing 
and  arithmetic,  all  kinds  of  needlework,  and  the  nicer  kinds 
of  household  work — such  as  getting  up  fine  linen,  ironing,  &c 
If  accomplishments  are  required,  an  additional  charge  of  ol 
a  year  is  made  for  music  or  drawing,  each." 

Rule  3d  requests  that  the  friends  will  state  the  line  of 
education  desired  in  the  case  of  every  pupi],  having  a  pro- 
spective regard  to  her  future  prospect?. 

Eule  4th  states  the  clothing  and  toilette  articles  whicu 
a  girl  is  expected  to  bring  with  her ;  and  thus  concludes  : 
"  The  pupils  all  appear  in  the  same  dress.  They  wear  plain 
straw  cottage  bonnets,  in  summer  white  frocks  on  Sundays, 
and  nankeen  on  other  days ;  in  winter,  purple  stuff  frocks, 
and  purple  cloth  cloaks.  For  the  sake  of  uniformity,  there- 
fore, they  are  required  to  bring  3Z.  in  lieu  of  frocks,  pelisse, 
bonnet,  tippet,  and  frills  ;  making  the  whole  sum  which  each 
pupil  brings  with  her  to  the  school — 

71.  half-year  in  advance. 
1/.  entrance  for  books. 
1^.  entrance  for  clothes. 

The  8th  rule  is — "  All  letters  and  parcels  are  inspected 
by  the  superintendent ;  "  but  this  is  a  very  prevalent  regula- 
tion in  all  young  ladies'  schools,  where  I  think  it  is  generally 
understood  that  the  schoolmistress  may  exercise  this  privi- 
lege, although  it  is  certainly  unwise  in  her  to  insist  too 
frequently  upon  it. 

There  is  nothing  at  all  remarkable  in  any  of  the  other 
regulations,  a  copy  of  which  was  doubtless  in  Mr.  Bronte's 
hands  when  he  formed  the  determination  to  send  his  daugh- 
ters to  Cowan's  Bridge  School;  and  he  accordingly  took 
Maria  and  Elizabeth  thither  in  July,  1824. 

I  now  come  to  a  part  of  my  subject  which  I  find  great 


54  IJFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BEONTE. 

difficulty  in  treating,  "because  the  evidence  relating  to  it  on 
each  side  is  so  conflicting  that  it  seems  almost  impossible  to 
arrive  at  the  truth.  Miss  Bronte  more  than  once  said  to 
me,  that  she  should  not  have  written  what  she  did  of 
Lowood  in  "  Jane  Eyre,"  if  she  had  thought  the  place  would 
have  been  so  immediately  identified  with  Cowan's  Bridge, 
although  there  was  not  a  word  in  her  account  of  the  institu- 
tion hut  what  was  true  at  the  time  when  she  knew  it ;  she 
also  said  that  she  had  not  considered  it  necessary,  in  a  work 
of  fiction,  to  state  every  particular  with  the  impartiality  that 
might  be  required  in  a  court  of  justice,  nor  to  seek  out 
motives,  and  make  allowances  for  human  feelings,  as  she 
might  have  done,  if  dispassionately  analyzing  the  conduct 
of  those  who  had  the  superintendence  of  the  institution.  I 
believe  she  herself  would  have  been  glad  of  an  opportunity 
to  correct  the  over-strong  impression  whicfi  was  made  upon 
the  public  mind  by  her  vivid  picture,  though  even  she,  sufi*er- 
ing  her  whole  life  long,  both  in  heart  and  body,  from  the 
consequences  of  what  happened  there,  might  have  been  apt, 
to  the  last,  to  take  her  deep  belief  in  facts  for  the  facts  them- 
selves— her  conception  of  truth  for  the  absolute  truth. 

A  wealthy  clergyman,  living  near  Kirby  Lonsdale,  the 
Reverend  William  Carus  Wilson,  was  the  prime  mover  in 
the  establishment  of  this  school.  He  was  an  energetic  man, 
sparing  no  labour  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  ends,  and 
willing  to  sacrifice  everything  but  power.  He  saw  that  it 
was  an  extremely  difficult  task  for  clergymen  with  limited 
incomes  to  provide  for  the  education  of  their  children ;  and 
he  devised  a  scheme,  by  which  a  certain  sum  was  raised  an- 
nually in  subscription,  to  complete  the  amount  required  to 
furnish  a  solid  and  sufficient  English  education,  for  which 
the  parent's  payment  of  14Z.  a  year  would  not  have  been 
sufficient.  Indeed  that  made  by  the  parents  was  considered 
to  be  exclusively  appropriated  to  the  expenses  of  lodging  and 


THE   KEV.    CARUS    WILSON.  55 

boarding,  and  the  education  provided  for  by  the  subscrip- 
tions. Twelve  trustees  were. appointed;  Mr.  Wilson  being 
not  only  a  trustee,  but  the  treasurer  and  secretary ;  in  fact, 
taking  most  of  the  business  arrangements  upon  himself;  a 
responsibility  which  appropriately  fell  to  him,  as  he  lived 
nearer  the  school  than  any  one  else  who  was  interested  in  it. 
So  hu  character  for  prudence  and  judgment  was  to  a  certain 
degree  implicated  in  the  success  or  failure  of  Cowan's  Bridge 
School ;  and  the  working  of  it  was  for  many  years  the  great 
object  and  interest  of  his  life.  But  he  was  apparently  un- 
acquaintod  with  the  prime  element  in  good  administration — • 
seeking  out  thoroughly  competent  persons  to  fill  each  depart- 
mect,  and  then  making  them  responsible  for,  and  judging 
them  by,  the  result,  without  perpetual  and  injudicious  inter- 
ference with  the  details.  So  great  was  the  amount  of  good 
which  Mr.  Wilson  did,  by  his  constant,  unwearied  superin- 
tendence, that  I  cannot  help  feeling  sorry  that,  in  his  old  age 
and  declining  health,  the  errors,  which  he  certainly  commit- 
ted, should  have  been  brought  up  against  him  in  a  form 
which  received  such  wonderful  force  from  the  touch  of  Miss 
Bronte's  great  genius.  As  I  write,  I  have  before  me  his 
last  words  on  ^giving  up  the  secretaryship  in  1850 — he 
speaks  of  the  "  withdrawal,  from  declining  health,  of  an  eye, 
which,  at  all  events,  has  loved  to  watch  over  the  schools  with 
an  honest  and  anxious  interest," — and  again  he  adds,  "  that 
he  resigns,  therefore,  with  a  desire  to  be  thankful  for  all  that 
God  has  been  pleased  to  accomplish  through  his  instru- 
mentality (the  infirmities  and  unworthinesses  of  which  ho 
deeply  feels  and  deplores.)" 

Cowan's  Bridge  is  a  cluster  of  some  six  or  seven  cot- 
tages, gathered  together  at  both  ends  of  a  bridge,  over  which 
the  high  road  from  Leeds  to  Kendal  crosses  a  little  stream, 
called  the  Leek.  This  high  road  is  nearly  disused  now ;  but 
formerly^  when  the  buyers  from  the  West  Riding  manufac- 


5b  LIFE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

turing  districts  had  frequent  occasion  to  go  up  into  the  North 
to  purchase  the  wool  of  the  Westmoreland  and  Cumberland 
farmers,  it  was  doubtless  much  travelled ;  and  perhaps  the 
hamlet  of  Cowan's  Bridge  had  a  more  prosperous  look  than 
it  bears  at  present.  It  is  prettily  situated ;  just  where  the 
Leck-fells  swoop  into  the  plain ;  and  by  the  course  of  th 
beck  alder-trees  and  willows  and  hazel  bushes  grow.  Th 
current  of  the  stream  is  interrupted  by  broken  pieces  of  grey 
rock ;  and  the  waters  flow  over  a  bed  of  large  round  white 
pebbles,  which  a  flood  heaves  up  and  moves  on  either  side 
out  of  its  impetuous  way  till  in  some  parts  they  almost  form 
a  wall.  By  the  side  of  the  little,  shallow,  sparkling,  vigor- 
ous Leek,  run  long  pasture  fields,  of  the  fine  short  grass  com- 
mon in  high  land ;  for  though  Cowan's  Bridge  is  situated  on 
a  plain,  it  is  a  plain  from  which  there  is  many  a  fall  and  long 
descent  before  you  and  the  Leek  reach  the  valley  of  the 
Lune.  I  can  hardly  understand  how  the  school  there  came 
to  be  so  unhealthy,  the  air  all  round  about  was  so  sweet  and 
thyme-scented,  when  I  visited  it  last  summer.  But  at  this 
day,  every  one  knows  that  the  site  of  a  building  intended  for 
numbers  should  be  chosen  with  far  greater  care  than  that  of 
a  private  house,  from  the  tendency  to  illness,  both  infectious 
and  otherwise,  produced  by  the  congregation  of  people  in 
close  proximity. 

The  house  is  still  remaining  that  formed  part  of  that 
occupied  by  the  school.  It  is  a  long,  low  bow-windowed 
cottage,  now  divided  into  two  dwellings.  It  stands  facing 
the  Leek,  between  which  and  it  intervenes  a  space,  about 
seventy  yards  deep,  that  was  once  the  school  garden.  Run- 
ning from  this  building,  at  right  angles  with  what  now  re- 
mains  of  the  school-house,  there  was  formerly  a  bobbin-mill 
connected  with  the  stream,  where  wooden  reels  were  made 
out  of  the  alders  which  grow  profusely  in  such  ground  aa 
that  surrounding  Cowan's  Bridge.     Mr.  Wilson  adapted  tliis 


ARRANGEMENTS    OF   COWAn's   BRIDGE    SCHOOL.         57 

mill  to  his  purpose ;  there  were  school-rooms  on  the  lower 
floor,  and  dormitories  on  the  upper.  The  present  cottage 
was  occupied  by  the  teachers'  rooms,  the  dining-room  and 
kitchens,  and  some  smaller  bed-rooms.  On  going  into  this 
building,  I  found  one  part,  that  nearest  to  the  high  road, 
converted  into  a  poor  kind  of  public-house,  then  to  let,  and 
having  all  the  squalid  appearance  of  a  deserted  place,  which 
rendered  it  difficult  to  judge  what  it  would  look  like  when 
neatly  kept  up,  the  broken  panes  replaced  in  the  windows, 
and  the  rough-cast  (now  cracked  and  discoloured)  made 
white  and  whole.  The  other  end  forms  a  cottage,  with  the 
low  ceilings  and  stone  floors  of  a  hundred  years  ago ;  the 
windows  do  not  open  freely  and  widely ;  and  the  passage  up- 
stairs, leading  to  the  bed-rooms,  is  narrow  and  tortuous ; 
altogether,  smells  would  linger  about  the  house,  and  damp 
cling  to  it.  But  sanitary  matters  were  little  understood 
thirty  years  ago ;  and  it  was  a  grdat  thing  to  get  a  roomy 
building  close  to  the  high  road,  and  not  too  far  from  the 
habitation  of  Mr.  Wilson,  the  originator  of  the  educational 
scheme.  There  was  much  need  of  such  an  institution ;  num- 
bers of  ill-paid  clergymen  hailed  the  prospect  with  joy,  and 
eagerly  put  down  the  names  of  their  children  as  pupils  when 
the  establishment  should  be  ready  to  receive  them.  Mr. 
Wilson  was,  no  doubt,  pleased  by  the  impatience  with  which 
the  realization  of  his  idea  was  anticipated,  and  opened  the 
school  with  less  than  a  hundred  pounds  in  hand,  and,  as  far 
as  I  can  make  out,  from  seventy  to  eighty  pupils. 

Mi*.  Wilson  felt,  most  probably,  that  the  responsibility  of 
the  whole  plan  rested  upon  him.  The  payment  made  by  the 
parents  was  barely  enough  for  food  and  lodging ;  the  sub- 
scriptions did  not  flow  very  freely  into  an  untried  scheme ; 
and  great  economy  was  necessary  in  all  the  domestic  arrange- 
ments. He  determined  to  enforce  this  by  frequent  personal 
inspection ;  and  his  love  of  authority  seems  to  have  led  to  a 
VOL.  L— 3* 


68  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

great  deal  of  unnecessary  and  irritating  meddling  with  little 
matters.  Yet,  althougli  there  was  economy  in  providing  for 
the  household,  there  does  not  appear  to  have  been  any  parsi- 
mony. The  meat,  flour,  milk,  &c.,  were  contracted  for,  but 
were  of  very  fair  quality ;  and  the  dietary,  which  has  been 
shown  to  me  in  manuscript,  was  neither  bad  nor  unwhole- 
Bome ;  nor,  on  the  whole,  was  it  wanting  in  Tariety.  Oat- 
meal porridge  for  breakfast ;  a  piece  of  oat-cake  for  those 
who  required  luncheon ;  baked  and  boiled  beef,  and  mutton, 
potato-pie,  and  plain  homely  puddings  of  different  kinds  for 
dinner.  At  five  o'clock,  bread  and  milk  for  the  younger 
ones ;  and  one  piece  of  bread  (this  was  the  only  time  at  which 
the  food  was  limited)  for  the  elder  pupils,  who  sat  up  till  a 
later  meal  of  the  same  description.  Mr.  Wilson  himself 
ordered  in  the  food,  and  was  anxious  that  it  should  be  of 
good  quality.  But  the  cook,  who  had  much  of  his  confi- 
dence, and  against  whom  for  a  long  time  no  one  durst  utter 
a  complaint,  was  careless,  dirty,  and  wasteful.  To  some 
children  oatmeal  porridge  is  distasteful,  and  consequently  un- 
wholesome, even  when  properly  made;  at  Cowan's  Bridge 
School  it  was  too  often  sent  up,  not  merely  burnt,  but  with 
offensive  fragments  of  other  substances  discoverable  in  it. 
The  beef,  that  should  have  been  carefully  salted  before  it  was 
dressed,  had  often  become  tainted  from  neglect ;  and  girls, 
who  were  schoolfellows  with  the  Brontes,  during  the  reign 
of  the  cook  of  whom  I  am  speaking,  tell  me  that  the  house 
seemed  to  be  pervaded,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  by  the 
odour  of  rancid  fat  that  steamed  out  of  the  oven  in  which 
much  of  their  food  was  prepared.  There  was  the  oame  care- 
lessness in  making  the  puddings ;  one  of  those  ordered  was 
rice  boiled  in  water,  and  eaten  with  a  sauce  of  treacle  and 
sugar;  but  it  was  often  uneatable,  because  the  water  had 
been  taken  out  of  the  rain-tub,  and  was  strongly  impreg- 
vtated   with  the   dust  lodging  on  the  roof,  whence  it  had 


DIET   OF   THE   PUPILS.  59 

trickled  down  into  the  old  wooden  cask,  which  also  added  its 
own  flavour  to  that  of  the  original  rain  water.  The  milk, 
too,  was  often  "  bingy,''  to  use  a  country  expression  for  a 
kind  of  taint  that  is  far  worse  than  sourness,  and  suggests 
the  idea  that  it  is  caused  by  want  of  cleanliness  about  the 
milk  pans,  rather  than  by  the  heat  of  the  weather.  On  Satur- 
days, a  kind  of  pie,  or  mixture  of  potatoes  and  meat,  was 
Bcrved  up,  which  was  made  of  all  the  fragments  accumulated 
during  the  week.  Scraps  of  meat  from  a  dirty  and  disorderly 
larder,  could  never  be  very  appetizing ;  and,  I  believe,  that 
this  dinner  was  more  loathed  than  any  in  the  early  days  of 
Cowan's  Bridge  School.  One  may  fancy  how  repulsive  such 
fare  would  be  to  children  whose  appetites  were  small,  and 
who  had  been  accustomed  to  food,  far  simpler  perhaps,  but 
prepared  with  a  delicate  cleanliness  that  made  it  both  tempt- 
ing and  wholesome.  Many  a  meal  the  little  Brontes  went 
without  food,  although  craving  with  hunger.  They  were  not 
strong^  when  they  came,  having  only  just  recovered  from  a 
complication  of  measles  and  hooping-c(fagh ;  indeed,  I  sus- 
pect they  had  scarcely  recovered ;  for  there  was  some  consul- 
tation on  the  part  of  the  school  authorities  whether  Maria 
and  Elizabeth  should  be  received  or  not,  in  July  1824,  Mr. 
Bronte  came  again,  in  the  September  of  that  year,  bringing 
with  him  Charlotte  and  Emily  to  be  admitted  as  pupils. 

It  appears  strange  that  Mr.  Wilson  should  not  have  been 
informed  by  the  teachers  of  the  way  in  which  the  food  was 
served  up ;  but  we  must  remember  that  the  cook  had  been 
known  for  some  time  to  the  Wilson  family,  while  the  teach- 
ers were  brought  together  for  an  entirely  different  work— - 
that  of  education.  They  were  expressly  given  to  understand 
that  such  was  their  department ;  the  buying  in  and  manage- 
ment of  the  provisions  rested  with  Mr.  Wilson  and  the  cook. 
The  teachers  would,  of  course,  be  unwilling  to  lay  any  com- 
plaints on  the  subject  before  him ;  and  when  he  heard  of 


60  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BEONTE. 

them,  his  reply  was  to  the  effect  that  the  children  were  tc 
be  trained  up  to  regard  higher  things  than  dainty  pampering 
of  the  appetite,  and  (apparently  unconscious  of  the  fact,  that 
daily  loathing  and  rejection  of  food  is  sure  to  undermine  the 
health)  he  lectured  them  on  the  sin  of  caring  over-much  for 
carnal  things. 

There  was  another  trial  of  health  common  to  all  the  girls. 
The  path  from  Cowan's  Bridge  to  Tunstall  Church,  where 
Mr.  Wilson  preached,  and  where  they  all  attended  on  the 
Sunday,  is  more  than  two  miles  in  lengtn,  and  goes  sweeping 
along  the  rise  and. fall  of  the  unsheltered  country,  m  a  way 
to  make  it  a  fresh  and  exhilarating  walk  in  feummer,  but  a 
bitter  cold  one  in  winter,  especially  to  children  who^^e  thin 
blood  flowed  languidly  in  consequence  of  their  half-starved 
condition.  The  church  was  not  warmed,  there  being  no 
means  for  this  purpose.  It  stands  in  the  midst  of  fields,  and 
the  damp  mists  must  have  gathered  round  the  walls,  and 
crept  in  at  the  windows.  The  girls  took  their  cold  dinner 
with  them,  and  ate  it  between  the  services,  in  a  chaniber  over 
the  entrance,  opening  out  of  the  former  galleries.  The  ar- 
rangements for  this  day  were  peculiarly  trying  to  delicate 
children,  particularly  to  those  who  were  spiritless,  and  long- 
ing for  home,  as  poor  Maria  Bronte  must  have  been.  For 
her  ill  health  was  increasing ;  the  old  cough,  the  remains  of 
the  hooping-cough,  lingered  about  her  ;  she  was  far  superior 
in  mind  to  any  of  her  play-feliows  and  companions,  and  was 
lonely  amongst  them  from  that  very  cause  ;  and  yet  she  had 
faults  so  annoying  that  she  was  in  constant  disgrace  with  her 
teachers,  and  an  object  of  merciless  dislike  to  one  of  them, 
who  is  depicted  as  ^*  Miss  Sctitcherd  "  in  "  Jane  Eyre,"  and 
whose  real  name  I  will  be  merciful  enough  not  to  disclose. 
1  need  hardly  say,  that  Helen  Burns  is  as  exact  a  transcript 
of  Maria  Bronte  as  Charlotte's  wonderful  power  of  repro- 
ducing character  could  give.     Her  heart,  to  the  latest  day  on 


"miss    SCATCHEKd"    and    " HELEN   BUliNS."  61 

wliicli  we  met,  still  beat  with  unavailing  indignation  at  the 
worrying  and  the  cruelty  to  which  her  gentle,  patient,  dying 
sister  had  been  subjected  by  this  woman.  Not  a  word  of 
that  part  of  "  Jane  Eyre  "  but  is  a  literal  repetition  of  scener 
between  the  pupil  and  the  teacher.  Those  who  had  beep 
pupils  at  the  same  time  knew  who  must  have  (vritten  the 
book,  from  the  force  with  which  Helen  Burns'  sufferings 
are  described.  They  had,  before  that,  recognized  the  de- 
scription of  the  sweet  dignity  and  benevolence  of  Miss  Tem- 
ple as  only  a  just  tribute  to  the  merits  of  one  whom  all  that 
knew  her  appear  to  hold  in  honour  ;  but  when  Miss  Scatcherd 
was  held  up  to  opprobrium  they  also  recognized  in  the  writer 
of  ^'  Jane  Eyre  "  an  unconsciously  avenging  sister  of  the 
sufferer. 

One  of  tbese  fellow-pupils  of  Charlotte  and  Maria 
Bronte's,  among  other  statements  even  worse,  gives  me  the 
following  : — The  dormitory  in  which  Maria  slept  was  a  long 
room,  holding  a  row  of  narrow  little  beds  on  each  side,  occu- 
pied by  the  pupils ;  and  at  the  end  of  this  dormitory  theio 
was  a  small  bed-chamber  opening  out  of  it,  appropriated  to 
the  use  of  Miss  Scatcherd.  Maria's  bed  stood  nearest  to  th^ 
door  of  this  room.  One  morning,  after  she  had  become  sc 
serioiLsly  unwell  as  to  have  had  a  blister  applied  to  her  side 
(the  sore  from  which  was  not  perfectly  healed),  when  th< 
getting-up  bell  was  heard,  poor  Maria  moaned  out  that  she 
was  so  ill,  so  very  ill,  she  wished  she  might  stop  in  bed ;  and 
some  of  the  girly  urged  her  to  do  so,  and  said  they  would 
explain  it  all  to  Miss  Temple,  the  superintendent.  But  Miss 
Scatcherd  was  close  at  hand,  and  her  anger  would  have  to 
be  faced  before  Miss  Temple's  kind  thoughtfulness  could  in- 
terfere ;  so  the  sick  child  began  to  dress,  shivering  with  cold, 
as,  without  leaving  her  bed,  she  slowly  put  on  her  black 
worsted  stockings  over  her  thin  white  legs  (my  informant 
spoke  as  if  she  saw  it  yet,  and  her  whole  face  flushed  out 


G2  LIFE   OF   CITARLOriE   BRONTE. 

undying  indignation).  Just  then  Miss  Scatcherd  issued  from 
her  room,  and,  without  asking  for  a  word  of  explanation  from 
the  sick  and  frightened  girl,  she  took  her  by  the  arm,  on  the 
side  to  which  the  blister  had  been  applied,  and  by  one  vigor- 
ous movement  whirled  her  out  into  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
abusing  her  all  the  time  for  dirty  and  untidy  habits.  There 
she  left  her.  My  informant  says,  Maria  hardly  spoke,  except 
to  beg  some  of  the  more  indignant  girls  to  be  calm ;  but,  in 
bIow,  trembling  movements,  with  many  a  pause,  she  went 
down  stairs  at  last, — and  was  punished  for  being  too  late. 

Any  one  may  fancy  how  such  an  event  a^s  this  would 
rankle  in  Charlotte's  mind.  I  only  wonder  that  she  did  not 
remonstrate  against  her  father's  decision  to  send  her  and 
Emily  back  to  Cowan's  Bridge,  after  Maria's  and  Elizabeth's 
deaths.  But  frequently  children  are  unconscious  of  the  effect 
which  some  of  their  simple  revelations  would  have  in  altering 
the  opinions  entertained  by  their  friends  of  the  persons  placed 
around  them.  Besides,  Charlotte's  earnest  vigorous  mind 
saw,  at  an  unusually  early  age,  the  immense  importance  of 
education,  as  furnishing  her  with  tools  which  she  had  the 
strength  and  the  will  to  wield,  and  she  would  be  aware  that 
the  Cowan's  Bridge  education  was,  in  many  points,  the  best 
that  her  father  could  provide  for  her. 

Before  Maria  Bronte's  death,  that  low  fever  broke  out, 
in  the  spring  of  1825,  which  is  spoken  of  in  "  Jane  Eyre." 
Mr.  Wilson  was  extremely  alarmed  at  the  first  symptoms  of 
this ;  his  self-confidence  was  shaken ;  he  did  not  understand 
what  kind  of  illness  it  could  be,  that  made  the  girls  too  dull 
and  heavy  to  understand  remonstrances,  or  be  roused  by 
texts  and  spiritual  exhortation ;  but  caused  them  to  sink 
away  into  dull  stupor,  and  half-unconscious  listlessness.  He 
went  to  a  kind  motherly  woman,  who  had  had  some  connec- 
tion with  the  school — as  laundress,  I  believe — and  asked  her 
to  cora^  %nd  tell  him  what  wr«  the  matter  with  them.     She 


FEVER   IN    THE   SCHOOL.  63 

made  herself  ready,  and  drove  with  him  in  his  gig.  When 
she  entered  the  school-room,  she  saw  from  twelve  to  fifteen 
girls  lying  abont ;  some  resting  their  aching  heads  on  the 
table,  others  on  the  ground ;  all  heavy-eyed,  flushed,  indif- 
ferent, and  weary,  with  pains  in  every  limb.  Some  peculiar 
odour,  she  says,  made  her  recognise  that  they  were  sickening 
for  "  the  fever ;  "  and  she  told  Mr.  Wilson  so,  and  that  she 
could  not  stay  there  for  fear  of  conveying  the  infection  to 
her  own  children ;  but  he  half  commanded,  and  half  en- 
treated her  to  remain  and  nurse  them ;  and  finally  mounted 
his  gig  and  drove  away,  while  she  was  still  urging  that  she 
must  return  to  her  own  house,  and  to  her  domestic  duties, 
for  which  she  had  provided  no  substitute.  However,  when 
she  was  left  in  this  unceremonioi^s  manner,  she  determined 
to  make  the  best  of  it ;  and  a  most  efficient  nurse  she  proved, 
although,  as  she  says,  it  was  a  dreary  time.  Mr.  Wilson 
supplied  every  thing  ordered  by  the  doctors  of  the  best 
quality,  and  in  the  most  liberal  manner ;  he  even  sent  for 
additional  advice,  in  the  person  of  his  own  brother-in-law,  a 
very  clever  medical  man  in  Kirby,  with  whom  he  had  not 
been  on  good  terms  for  some  time  previously ;  and  it  was 
this  doctor  who  tasted  and  condemned  the  daily  food  of  the 
girls  by  the  expressive  action  of  spitting  out  a  portion  which 
he  had  taken  in  order  to  taste  it.  About  forty  of  the  girls 
suffered  from  this  fever,  but  none  of  them  died  at  Cowan's 
Bridge,  though  one  died  at  her  own  home,  sinking  under  the 
state  of  health  which  followed  it.  None  of  the  Bronte's  had 
the  fever.  But  the  same  causes,  which  affected  the  health 
of  the  other  pupils  through  typhus,  told  more  slowly,  but  not 
less  surely,  upon  their  constitutions.  The  principal  of  these 
causes  was  the  food. 

The  bad  management  of  the  cook  was  chiefly  to  be 
}lamed  for  this ;  she  was  dismissed,  and  the  woman  who  had 
oeei?  forced  against  her  will  to  serve  as  head  nurse,  took  the 


64:  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

place  of  housekeeper ;  and  henceforward  the  food  was  so  well 
prepared  that  no  one  could  ever  reasonably  complain  of  it. 
Of  course  it  cannot  be  expected  that  a  new  institution,  com- 
prising domestic  and  educational  arrangements  for  nearly  a 
hundred  persons,  should  work  quite  smoothly  at  the  beginning, 
and  all  this  occurred  during  the  first  two  years  of  the  estab- 
lishment. But  Mr.  Wilson  seems  to  have  had  the  unlucky 
gift  of  irritating  even  those  to  whom  he  meant  kindly,  and 
for  whom  he  was  making  perpetual  sacrifices  of  time  and 
money,  by  never  showing  any  respect  for  their  independence 
of  opinion  and  action.  He  had,  too,  so  little  knowledge  of 
human  nature  as  to  imagine  that,  by  constantly  reminding 
the  girls  of  their  dependent  position,  and  the  fact  that  they 
were  receiving  their  education  from  the  charity  of  others,  he 
could  make  them  lowly  and  humble.  Some  of  the  more  sen- 
sitive felt  this  treatment  bitterly,  and  instead  of  being  as 
grateful  as  they  should  have  been  for  the  real  benefits  they 
were  obtaining,  their  mortified  pride  rose  up  from  its  fall  a 
hundred-fold  more  strong.  Painful  impressions  sink  deep 
into  the  hearts  of  delicate  and  sickly  children.  What  the 
healthy  suffer  from  but  momentarily,  and  then  forget,  those 
who  are  ailing  brood  over  involuntarily,  and  remember  long 
— perhaps  with  no  resentment,  but  simply  as  a  piece  of  sufier- 
ing  that  has  been  stamped  into  their  very  life.  The  pictures^ 
ideas,  and  conceptions  of  character  received  into  the  mind  of 
the  child  of  eight  years  old,  were  destined  to  be  reproduced 
in  fiery  words  a  quarter  of  a  century  afterwards.  She  saw 
only  one  side,  and  that  the  unfavourable  side  of  Mr.  Wilson 
but  many  of  those  who  knew  him,  assure  me  of  the  wonderful 
fidelity  with  which  his  disagreeable  qualities,  his  spiritual 
pride,  his  love  of  power,  his  ignorance  of  human  nature  and 
ooDsequent  want  of  tenderness  are  represented ;  while,  at  the 
Bame  time,  they  regret  that  the  delineation  of  these  should 
have  obliterated,  as  it  were,  nearly  all  that  was  noble  and 
conscientious. 


THE   BRONTE    SISTEKS.  ()5 

The  recollections  left  of  the  four  E rente  sisters  at  this 
period  of  their  lives,  on  the  minds  of  those  who  associated 
with  them,  are  not  very  distinct.  Wild,  strong  hearts,  and 
powerful  minds,  were  tidden  under  an  enforced  propriety 
and  regularity  of  demeanour  and  expression,  just  as  their 
faces  had  been  concealed  by  their  father,  under  his  stiff, 
unchanging  mask.  Maria  was  delicate,  unusually  clever  and 
thoughtful  for  her  age,  gentle,  and  untidy.  Of  her  frequent 
disgrace  from  this  last  fault — of  her  sufferings,  so  patiently 
borne — I  have  already  spoken.  The  only  glimpse  we  get  of 
Elizabeth,  through  the  few  years  of  her  short  life,  is  con- 
tained in  a  letter  which  I  have  received  from  Miss  "  Temple." 
"  The  second,  Elizabeth,  is  the  only  one  of  the  family  of 
whom  I  have  a  vivid  recollection,  from  her  meeting  with  a 
somewhat  alarming  accident,  in  consequence  of  which  I  had 
her  for  some  days  and  nights  in  my  bed-room,  not  only  for 
the  sake  of  greater  quiet,  but  that  I  might  watch  over  her 
myself.  Her  head  was  severely  cut,  but  she  bore  all  the 
consequent  suffering  with  exemplary  patience,  and  by  it  won 
much  upon  my  esteem.  Of  the  two  younger  ones  (if  two 
there  were)  I  have  very  slight  recollections,  save  that  one,  a 
darling  child,  under  five  years  of  age,  was  quite  the  pet 
nursling  of  the  school."  This  last  would  be  Emily.  Char- 
lotte was  considered  the  most  talkative  of  the  sisters — a 
"  bright,  clever  little  child."  Her  great  friend  was  a  certain 
"  Mellany  Hane"  (so  Mr.  Bronte  spells  the  name),  a  West 
Indian,  whose  brother  paid  for  her  schooling,  and  who  had 
no  remarkable  talent  except  for  music,  which  her  brother's 
circumstances  forbade  her  to  cultivate.  She  was  "  a  hungry, 
good-natured,  ordinary  girl;"  older  than  Charlotte,  and  ever 
ready  to  protect  her  from  any  petty  tyranny  or  encroach- 
ments on  the  part  of  the  elder  girls.  Charlotte  always 
remembered  her  with  affection  and  gratitude. 

I  have   quoted  the  word  "bright"  in  the  account  of 


66  LIFE   OF   CIIAELOTTE   liRONTE. 

Charlotte.  I  suspect  that  this  year  of  1825  was  the  last 
time  it  could  ever  be  applied  to  her.  In  this  spring,  Maria 
became  so  rapidly  worse  that  Mr.  Bronte  was  sent  for.  Ho 
had  not  previously  been  aware  of  her  illness,  and  the  condi- 
tion in  which  he  found  her  was  a  terrible  shock  to  him.  He 
took  her  home  by  the  Leeds  coach,  the  girls  crowding  out 
into  the  road  to  follow  her  with  their  eyes  over  the  bridge 
past  the  cottages,  and  then  out  of  sight  for  ever.  She  died 
a  very  few  days  after  her  arrival  at  home.  Perhaps  the 
news  of  her  death,  falling  suddenly  into  the  life  of  which  her 
patient  existence  had  formed  a  part,  only  a  little  week  or  so 
before,  made  those  who  remained  at  Cowan's  Bridge  look 
with  more  anxiety  on  Elizabeth's  symptoms,  which  also 
turned  out  to  be  consumptive.  She  was  sent  home  in  charge 
of  a  confidential  servant  of  the  establishment ;  and  she,  too, 
died  in  the  early  summer  of  that  year.  Charlotte  was  thus 
suddenly  called  into  the  responsibilities  of  eldest  sister  in  a 
motherless  family.  She  remembered  how  anxiously  her  dear 
sister  Maria  had  striven,  in  her  grave  earnest  way,  to  be  a 
tender  helper  and  a  counsellor  to  them  all ;  and  the  duties 
that  now  fell  upon  her  seemed  almost  like  a  legacy  from  the 
gentle  little  sufferer  so  lately  dead. 

Both  Charlotte  and  Emily  returned  to  school  after  the 
Midsummer  holidays  in  this  fatal  year.  But  before  the  next 
winter,  it  was  thought  desirable  to  advise  their  removal  from 
school,  as  it  was  evident  that  the  damp  situation  of  the  house 
at  Cowan's  Bridge  did  not  suit  their  health. 


THE  OLD  SERVANT  TABBY.  67 


CHAPTER    V. 

For  the  reason  just  stated,  the  little  girls  were  sent  home  in 
the  autumn  of  1825,  when  Charlotte  was  little  more  than 
nine  years  old. 

About  this  time,  an  elderly  woman  of  the  village  came  to 
live  as  a  servant  at  the  parsonage.  She  remained  there,  as 
a  member  of  the  household,  for  thirty  years  ;  and  from  the 
(ength  of  her  faithful  service,  and  the  attachment  and  respect 
which  she  inspired,  is  deserving  of  mention.  Tabby  was  a 
thorough  specimen  of  a  Yorkshire  woman  of  her  class,  in 
dialect,  in  appearance,  and  in  character.  She  abounded  in 
strong  practical  sense  and  shrewdness.  Her  words  were  far 
from  flattery ;  but  she  would  spare  no  deeds  in  the  cause  of 
those  whom  she  kindly  regarded.  She  ruled  the  children 
pretty  sharply ;  and  yet  never  grudged  a  little  extra  trouble 
to  provide  them  with  such  small  treats  as  came  within  her 
power.  In  return,  she  claimed  to  be  looked  upon  as  a 
humble  friend ;  and  many  years  later,  Miss  Bronte  told  me  she 
found  it  somewhat  difficult  to  manage,  as  Tabby  expected  to 
be  informed  of  all  the  family  concerns,  and  yet  had  grown  so 
deaf  that  what  was  repeated  to  her  became  known  to  who- 
ever might  be  in  or  about  the  house.  To  obviate  this  pub- 
lication of  what  it  might  be  desirable  to  keep  secret,  Misa 
Bronte  used  to  take  her  out  for  a  walk  on  the  solitary  moors; 
where,  when  both  were  seated  on  a  tuft  of  heather,  in  some 


68  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

high  and  lonely  place,  she  could  acquaint  the  old  woman,  at 
leisure,  with  all  that  she  wanted  to  hear. 

Tabby  had  lived  in  Haworth  in  the  days  when  the  pack- 
horses  went  through  once  a  week,  with  their  tinkling  bells 
and  gay  worsted  adornment,  carrying  the  produce  of  the 
country  from  Keighley  over  the  hills  to  Colne  and  Burnley. 
What  is  more,  she  had  known  the  "  bottom,"  or  valley,  in 
those  primitive  days  when  the  fairies  frequented  the  margin 
of  the  "  beck  "  on  moonlight  nights,  and  had  known  folk 
who  had  seen  them.  But  that  was  when  there  were  no  mills 
in  the  valleys ;  and  when  all  the  wool-spinning  was  done  by 
hand  in  the  farm-houses  round.  "  It  wur  the  factories  as 
had  driven  'em  away,"  she  said.  No  doubt  she  had  many  a 
tale  to  tell  of  by- gone  days  of  the  country  side ;  old  ways  of 
living,  former  inhabitants,  decayed  gentry,  who  had  melted 
away,  and  whose  places  knew  them  no  more  ;  family  trage- 
dies, and  dark  superstitious  dooms;  and  in  telling  these 
things  without  the  least  consciousness  that  there  might  ever 
be  anything  requiring  to  be  softened  down,  would  give  at  full 
length  the  bare  and  simple  details. 

Miss  Branwell  instructed  the  children  at  regular  hours  in 
all  she  could  teach,  making  her  bed-chamber  into  their  school- 
room. Their  father  was  in  the  habit  of  relating  to  them  any 
public  news  in  which  he  felt  an  interest ;  and  from  the  opin- 
ions of  his  strong  and  independent  mind  they  would  gather 
much  food  for  thought ;  but  I  do  not  know  whether  he  gave 
them  any  direct  instruction.  Charlotte's  deep  thoughtful 
spirit  appears  to  have  felt  almost  painfully  the  tender  re- 
sponsibility which  rested  upon  her  with  reference  to  her  re- 
maining sisters.  She  was  only  eighteen  months  older  than 
Emily ;  but  Emily  and .  Anne  were  simply  companions  and 
playmates,  while  Charlotte  was  motherly  friend  and  guardian 
to  both ;  and  this  loving  assumption  of  duties  beyond  lier 
years,  made  her  feel  considerably  older  than  she  really  was 


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PATRICK   BE  AN  WELL   BRONTE.  6& 

Patrick  Branwell,  their  only  brother,  was  a  boy  of  re- 
markable promise,  and,  in  some  ways,  of  extraordinary  pre- 
cocity of  talent.  Mr.  Bronte's  friends  advised  him  to  send 
his  son  to  school ;  but,  remembering  both  the  strength  of 
will  of  his  own  youth  and  his  mode  of  employing  it,  he  be- 
lieved that  Patrick  was  better  at  home,  and  that  he  himself 
could  teach  him  well,  as  he  .had  taught  others  before.  So 
Patrick,  or  as  his  family  called  him,  Branwell,  remained  at 
Haworth,  working  hard  for  some  hours  a  day  with  his  father ; 
but,  when  the  time  of  the  latter  was  taken  up  with  his  pa- 
rochial duties,  the  boy  was  thrown  into  chance  companionship 
with  the  lads  of  the  village — for  youth  will  to  youth,  and 
boys  will  to  boys. 

Still,  he  was  associated  in  many  of  his  sisters'  plays  and 
amusements.  These  were  mostly  of  a  sedentary  and  intel- 
lectual nature.  I  hav6  had  a  curious  packet  confided  to  me, 
containing  an  immense  amount  of  manuscript,  in  an  inconceiv- 
ably small  space ;  tales,  dramas,  poems,  romances,  written  prin- 
cipally by  Charlotte,  in  a  hand  which  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
decipher  without  the  aid  of  a  magnifying  glass.  No  descrip- 
tion will  give  so  good  an  idea  of  the  extreme  minuteness  of 
the  writing  as  the  annexed  fac-simile  of  a  page. 

Among  these  papers  there  is  a  list  of  her  works,  which  I 
copy,  as  a  curious  proof  how  early  the  rage  for  literary  com- 
position had  seized  upon  her : — 

CATALOGUE    OE    MY    BOOKS,    WITH     TUE     PERIOD    OF    THEIR    COM- 
PLETION UP  TO  AUGUST  3ed,   1830. 

Two  romantic  tales  in  one  volume ;  viz..  The  Twelve 
Adventurers  and  the  Adventures  in  Ireland,  April  2nd, 
1829. 

The  Search  after  Happiness,  a  Tale,  Aug.  1st,  1829. 

Leisure  Hours,  a  Tale,  and  two  Fragments,  July  6tn, 
1829. 


70  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

The  Adventures  of  Edward  de  Crack,  a  Tale,  Feb.  2nd^ 
1830. 

The  Adventures  of  Ernest  Alembert,  a  Tale,  May  26th, 
1830. 

An  interesting  Incident  in  the  Lives  of  some  of  the  most 
eminent  Persons  of  the  Age,  a  Tale,  June  10th,  1830. 

Tales  of  the  Islanders,  in  four  volumes.  Contents  of 
the  1st  Yol.  : — 1.  An  Account  of  their  Origin ;  2.  A  De- 
scription of  Vision  Island ;  3.  Ratten's  Attempt ;  4.  Lord 
Charles  Wellesley  and  the  Marquis  of  Douro  s  Adventure  ; 
completed  June  31st,  1829.  2nd  Vol.  :— 1.  The  School- 
rebellion  ;  2.  The  strange  Incident  in  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton's Life ;  3.  Tale  to  his  Sons  ;  4.  The  Marquis  of  Douro 
and  Lord  Charles  Wellesley's  Tale  to  his  little  King  and 
Queens;  completed  Dec.  2nd,  1829.  3rd  Vol.  :— 1.  The 
Duke  of  Wellington's  Adventure  in  the  Cavern;  2.  The 
Duke  of  Wellington  and  the  little  King's  and  Queen's  visit 
to  the  Horse-Guards ;  completed  May  8th,  1830.  4th 
Vol.  : — 1.  The  three  old  Washerwomen  of  Strathfieldsaye ; 

2.  Lord  C.  Wellesley's  Tale  to  his  Brother  ;  completed  July 
30th,  1830. 

Characters  of  Great  Men  of  the  Present  Age,  Dec.  17th, 
1829. 

The  Young  Men's  Magazines,  in  Six  Numbers,  from 
August  to  December,  the  latter  months'  double  number, 
completed  December  the  12th,  1829.  General  index  to 
their  contents  : — 1.  A  True  Story  ;  2.  Causes  of  the  War ; 

3.  A  Song;  4.  Conversations;  5.  A  True  Story  continued: 
6.  The  Spirit  of  Cawdor;  7.  Interior  of  a  Pothouse,  a 
Poem ;  8.  The  Glass  Town,  a  Song ;  9.  The  Silver  Cup,  a 
Tale;  10.  The  Table  and  Vase  in  the  Desert,  a  Song;  11. 
Conversations;  12.  Scene  on  the  Great  Bridge;  13.  Song 
of  the  Ancient  Britons ;  14.  Scene  in  my  Tun,  a  Tale ;  15. 
An  American  Tale  ;  16.  Lines  written  on  seeing  the  Garden 


JUV^EI^ILE   WORKS    IN    MANUSCKIPT.  Tj 

of  a  Genius;  17.  The  Lay  of  the  Glass  Town;  18.  The 
Swiss  Artist,  a  Tale ;  19.  Lines  on  the  transfer  of  this 
Magazine;  20.  On  the  Same,  by  a  different  hand;  21. 
Chief  Geni  in  Council ;  22.  Harvest  in  Spain ;  23.  The 
Swiss  Artist  continued  ;  24.  Conversations. 

The  Poetaster,  a  Drama,  in  2  volumes,  July  12th,  1830. 

A  Book  of  Rhymes,  finished  December  17th,  1829; 
Contents  : — 1.  The  Beauty  of  Nature  ;  2.  A  Short  Poem  ; 
8.  Meditations  while  Journeying  in  a  Canadian  Forest ;  4. 
A  Song  of  an  Exile  ;  5.  On  Seeing  the  Euins  of  the  Tower 
of  Babel ;  6.  A  Thing  of  14:  lines  ;  7.  Lines  written  on  the 
Bank  of  a  River  one  fine  Summer  Evening ;  8.  Spring,  a 
Song ;  9.  Autumn,  a  Song. 

Miscellaneous  Poems,  finished  May  30th,  1830.  Con- 
tents :— 1.  The  Churchyard ;  2.  Descriptions  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington's  Palace  on  the  Pleasant  Banks  of  the  Lusiva ; 
this  article  is  a  small  prose  tale  or  incident ;  3.  Pleasure ; 
4.  Lines  written  on  the  Summit  of  a  high  Mountain  of  the 
North  of  England ;  5.  Winter ;  6.  Two  Fragments,  namely, 
1st,  The  Vision  ;  2nd,  A  Short  untitled  Poem ;  The  Even- 
ing Walk,  a  Poem,  June  23rd,  1830. 

Making  in  the  whole  twenty-two  volumes. 

C.  Bkonte,  August  3,  1830. 

As  each  volume  contains  from  sixty  to  a  hundred  pages, 
and  the  size  of  the  page  lithographed  is  rather  less  than  the 
average,  the  amount  of  the  whole  seems  very  great,  if  we 
remember  that  it  was  all  written  in  about  fifteen  months. 
So  much  for  the  quantity;  the  quality  strikes  me  as  of 
singular  merit  for  a  girl  of  thirteen  or  fourteen.  Both  as  a 
specimen  of  her  prose  style  at  this  time,  and  also  as  re-^oaling 
something  of  the  quiet  domestic  life  led  by  these  children,  I 
take  an  extract  from  the  introduction  to  "  Tales  of  the  Isl- 
unders,"  the  title  of  one  of  their  *^  Little  Magazines  : " — 


^"2  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

''  June  the  31s/,  1829. 
"  The  plaj  of  the  '  Ishmders '  was  formed  in  December, 
1827,  in  the  following  manner.     One  night,  about  the  time 
when  the  cold  sleet  and  stormy  fogs  of  November  are  suc- 
ceeded by  the  snow-storms,  and  high  piercing  night-winds  of 
confirmed  winter,  we  were  all  sitting  round  the  warm  blazing 
kitchen  fire,  having  just  concluded  a  quarrel  with   Tabby 
concerning  the  propriety  of  lighting  a  candle,  from  which 
she  came  off  victorious,  no  candle  having  been  produced. 
A  long  pause  succeeded,  which  was  at  last  broken  by  Bran- 
well  saying,  in  a  lazy  manner,  ^  I  don't  know  what  to  do.' 
This  was  echoed  by  Emily  and  Anne. 
"  Tahhy,     *  Wha  ya  may  go  t'  bed.' 
^^  Branwell.     ^  I'd  rather  do  any  thing  than  that.' 
"  Charlotte,     ^  AVhy  are  you  so  glum  to-night,  Tabby  V 
Oh  !  suppose  we  had  each  an  island  of  our  own.' 

^^  BranwelL     ^  If  we  had  I  would  choose  the  Island  of 
Man.' 

"  Charlotte.  ^  And  I  would  choose  the  Isle  of  Wight.' 
"  Emily.  ^  The  Isle  of  Arran  for  me.' 
^^  Anne.  ^  And  mine  should  be  Guernsey.' 
'^  We  then  chose  who  should  be  chief  men  in  our  islands. 
Branwell  chose  John  Bull,  Astley  Cooper,  and  Leigh  Hunt ; 
Emily,  Walter  Scott,  Mr.  Lockhart,  Johnny  Lockhart ;  Anne, 
Michael  Sadler,  Lord  Bentinck,  Sir  Henry  Halford.  I  chose 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  and  two  sons,  Christopher  North  and 
Co.,  and  Mr.  Abernethy.  Here  our  conversation  was  inter- 
rupted by  the,  to  us,  dismal  sound  of  the  clock  striking 
seven,  and  we  were  summoned  off  to  bed.  The  next  day  we 
added  many  others  to  our  list  of  men,  till  we  got  almost  all 
the  chief  men  of  the  kingdom.  After  this,  for  a  long  time, 
nothing  worth  noticing  occurred.  In  June,  1828,  we  erected 
a  school  on  a  fictitious  island,  which  was  to  contain  1,000 
children.     The  manner  of  the  building  was  as  follows.     The 


HEK   "history  of  THE  YEAR  1829."  73 

Island  was  fifty  miles  in  circumference,  and  certainly  ap- 
peared more  like  the  work  of  enchantment  than  any  thing 
real,"  &c. 

Two  or  three  things  strike  me  much  in  this  fragment ; 
one  is  the  graphic  vividness  with  which  the  time  of  the  year, 
the  hour  of  the  evening,  the  feeling  of  cold  and  darkness 
outside,  the  sound  of  the  night-winds  sweeping  over  th 
desolate  snow-covered  moors,  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  and 
at  last  shaking  the  very  door  of  the  room  where  they  were 
sitting — for  it  opened  out  directly  on  that  bleak,  wide  ex- 
panse— is  contrasted  with  the  glow,  and  busy  brightness  of 
the  cheerful  kitchen  where  these  remarkable  children  are 
grouped.  Tabby  moves  about  in  her  quaint  country-dress, 
iVugal,  peremptory,  prone  to  find  fault  pretty  sharply,  yet 
allowing  no  one  else  to  blame  her  children,  we  may  feel  sure. 
A.nother  noticeable  faqt  is  the  intelligent  partisanship  with 
A^hich  they  choose  their  great  men,  who  are  almost  all  stanch 
Tories  of  the  time.  Moreover,  they  do  not  confine  them- 
selves to  local  heroes  ;  their  range  of  choice  has  been  widened 
by  hearing  much  of  what  is  not  usually  considered  to  interest 
children.  Little  Anne,  aged  scarcely  eight,  picks  out  the 
politicians  of  the  day  for  her  chief  men. 

There  is  another  scrap  of  paper,  in  this  all  but  illegible 
handwriting,  written  about  this  time,  and  which  gives  some 
idea  of  the  sources  of  their  opinions. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  YEAR  1829. 

"  Once  Papa  lent  my  sister  Maria  a  book.  It  was  an 
old  geography-book ;  she  wrote  on  its  blank  leaf,  ^  Papa  lent 
me  this  book.'  This  book  is  a  hundred  and  twenty  years 
old ;  it  is  at  this  moment  lying  before  me.  While  I  write 
this  I  am  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Parsonage,  Ilaworth  ;  Tabby, 
the  servant,  is  washing  up  the  breakfast-things,  and  Anne, 
VOL.  I. — 4 


74  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BPwONTE. 

my  youngest  sister  (Maria  was  my  eldest),  is  kneeling  on  a 
chair,  looking  at  some  cakes  which  Tabby  has  been  baking 
for  us.  Emily  is  in  the  parlor,  brushing  the  carpet..  Papa 
and  Branwell  are  gone  to  Keighley.  Aunt  is  up-stairs  in 
her  room,  and  I  am  sitting  by  the  table  writing  this  in  the 
kitchen.  Keighley  is  a  small  town  four  miles  from  bere. 
I^apa  and  Branwell  are  gone  for  the  newspaper,  the  *  Leeds 
Intelligencer,'  a  most  excellent  Tory  newspaper,  edited  by 
Mr.  Wood,  and  the  proprietor,  Mr.  Henneman.  We  take 
two  and  see  three  newspapers  a  week.  We  take  the  ^  Leeds 
Intelligencer,'  Tory,  and  the  ^  Leeds  Mercury,'  Whig,  edited 
by  Mr.  Baines,  and  his  brother,  son-in-law,  and  his  two  sons, 
Edward  and  Talbot.  We  see  the  *  John  Bull ; '  it  is  a  high 
Tory,  very  violent.  Mr.  Driver  lends  us  it,  as  likewise 
^  Blackwood's  Magazine,'  the  most  able  periodical  there  is. 
The  Editor  is  Mr.  Christopher  North,  an  old  man  seventy- 
four  years  of  age ;  the  1st  of  April  is  his  birtb-day  ;  his  com- 
pany are  Timothy  Tickler,  Morgan  O'Doherty,  Macrabin 
Mordecai,  Mullion,  Warnell,  and  James  Hogg,  a  man  of 
most  extraordinary  genius,  a  Scottish  shepherd.  Our  plays 
were  established ;  '  Young  Men,'  June,  1826 ;  Our  Fellows,' 
July,  1827;  *  Islanders,' December,  1827.  These  are  our 
three  great  plays,  that  are  not  kept  secret.  Emilj^'s  and  my 
best  plays  were  established  the  1st  of  December,  1827;  the 
others  March,  1828.  Best  plays  mean  secret  plays,  they 
are  very  nice  ones.  All  our  plays  are  very  strange  ones. 
Their  nature  I  need  not  write  on  paper,  for  I  think  I  shall 
always  remember  them.  The  ^  Young  Men's'  play  took  its 
rise  from  some  wooden  soldiers  Branwell  had ;  'Our  Fellows ' 
from  'jEsop's  Fables  ' ;  and  the  *  Islanders '  from  several 
events  which  happened.  I  will  sketch  out  the  origin  of  our 
plays  more  explicitly  if  I  can.  First,  '  Young  Men.'  Papa 
brought  Branwell  some  wooden  soldiers  at  Leeds ;  when 
Papa  came  hpnac   it  was  night,  and  we  were  in  bed,  so  next 


THE   TASTE   FOR   ART.  75 

morning  Bran  well  came  to  our  door  with  a  box  of  soldiers. 
Emily  and  I  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  I  snatched  up  one  and 
exclaimed,  '  This  is  the  Duke  of  Wellington !  This  shall  be 
the  Duke  !  '  When  I  had  said  this  Emily  likewise  took  one 
up  and  said  it  should  be  hers ;  when  Anne  came  down,  she 
said  one  should  be  hers.  Mine  was  the  prettiest  of  the 
whole,  and  the  tallest,  and  the  most  perfect  in  every  part. 
Emily's  was  a  grave  looking  fellow,  and  we  called  him 
*  Gravey.'  Anne's  was  a  queer  little  thing,  much  like  her- 
self, and  we  called  him  *  Waiting-boy.'  Branwell  chose  his, 
and  called  him  *  Buonaparte.' " 

The  foregoing  extract  shows  something  of  the  kin^  of 
reading  in  which  the  little  Brontes  were  interested ;  but 
their  desire  for  knowledge  must  have  been  excited  in  many 
directions,  for  I  find  a  "  list  of  painters  whose  works  I  wish 
to  see,"  drawn  up  by  Charlotte  Bronte  when  she  was  scarce- 
ly thirteen  : — 

*'  Guido  Reni,  Julio  Romano,  Titian,  Raphael,  Michaei 
Angelo,  Coreggio,  Annibal  Carracci,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Era 
Bartolomeo,  Carlo  Cignani,  Vandyke,  Rubens,  Bartolomeo 
Ramerghi." 

Here  is  this  little  girl,  in  a  remote  Yorkshire  parsonage, 
who  has  probably  never  seen  anything  worthy  the  name  of  a 
painting  in  her  life,  studying  the  names  and  characteristics 
of  the  great  old  Italian  and  Flemish  masters,  whose  works 
she  longs  to  see  sometime,  in  the  dim  future  that  lies  before 
her !  There  is  a  paper  remaining  which  contains  minuto 
studies  of,  and  criticisms  upon,  the  engravings  in  "  Friend- 
ship's Offering  for  1829 ;  "  showing  how  she  had  early  form- 
ed those  habits  of  close  observation,  and  patient  analysis  of 
cause  and  effect,  which  served  so  well  in  after-life  as  hand- 
maids to  her  genius. 

The  way  in  which  Mr.  Bronte  made  his  children  sympa- 
thize with  him  in  his  great  interest  in  poK  [cz^  must  havo 


76  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

done  mucli  to  lift  tliem  above  the  chances  of  their  minds  be- 
ing limited  or  tainted  bj  petty  local  gossip.  I  take  the  only 
other  remaining  personal  fragment  out  of  "  Tales  of  the  Isl- 
anders ;  "  it  is  a  sort  of  apology,  contained  in  the  introduc- 
tion to  the  second  volume,  for  their  not  having  been  contin- 
ued before ;  the  writers  had  been  for  a  long  time  too  busy, 
and  lately  too  much  absorbed  in  politics. 

"Parliament  was  opened,  and  the  great  Catholic  ques- 
tion was  brought  forward,  and  the  Duke's  measures  were  dis- 
closed, and  all  was  slander,  violence,  party-spirit,  and  con- 
fusion. Oh,  those  six  months,  from  the  time  of  the  King's 
speech  to  the  end !  Nobody  could  write,  think,  or  speak  on 
any  subject  but  the  Catholic  question,  and  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington, and  Mr.  Peel.  I  remember  the  day  when  the  In- 
telligence Extraordinary  came  with  Mr.  Peel's  speech  in  it, 
containing  the  terms  on  which  the  Catholics  were  to  be  let 
in !  With  what  eagerness  papa  tore  off  the  cover,  and  how 
we  all  gathered  round  him,  and  with  what  breathless  anxiety 
we  listened,  as  one  by  one  they  were  disclosed,  and  explain- 
ed, and  argued  upon  so  ably  and  so  well ;  and  then  when  it 
was  all  out,  how  aunt  said  that  she  thought  it  was  excellent, 
and  that  the  Catholics  could  do  no  harm  with  such  good  se- 
curity. I  remember  also  the  doubts  as  to  whether  it  would 
pass  the  House  of  Lords,  and  the  prophecies  that  it  would 
not ;  and  when  the  paper  came  which  was  to  decide  the 
question,  the  anxiety  was  almost  dreadful  with  which  wo 
listened  to  the  whole  affair :  the  opening  of  the  doors ;  the 
hush ;  the  royal  dukes  in  their  robes,  and  the  great  duke  in 
green  sash  and  waistcoat ;  the  rising  of  all  the  peeresses 
when  he  rose ;  the  reading  of  his  speech — ^papa  saying  that 
his  words  were  like  precious  gold ;  and  lastly,  the  majority 
of  one  to  four  (sic)  in  favor  of  the  Bill.  Dut  this  is  a  di- 
gression."    &c.  &c. 

This  must  have  been  written  when  she  was  between  thir 
teen  and  fourteen. 


POLITICAL   AND   IMAGINATIVE   IDEAS.  7T 

It  will  be  interesting  to  some  of  my  readers  to  know 
wliat  was  the  character  of  her  purely  imaginative  writing  at 
this  period.  While  her  description  of  any  real  occurrence 
is,  as  we  have  seen,  homely,  graphic,  and  forcible,  when  she 
gives  way  to  her  powers  of  creation,  her  fancy  and  her  lan- 
guage alike  run  riot,  sometimes  to  the  very  borders  of  appa- 
rent delirium.  Of  this  wild  weird  writing,  a  single  example 
will  suffice.  It  is  a  letter  to  the  editor  of  one  of  the  '^  Little 
Magazines." 

Sir, — It  is  well  known  that  the  Genii  have  declared  that 
unless  they  perform  certain  arduous  duties  every  year,  of  a 
mysterious  nature,  all  the  worlds  in  the  firmament  will  be 
burnt  up,  and  gathered  together  in  one  mighty  globe,  which 
will  roll  in  solitary  grandeur  through  the  vast  wilderness  of 
space,  inhabited  only  by  the  four  high  princes  of  the  Genii, 
till  time  shall  be  succeeded  by  Eternity ;  and  the  impudence 
of  this  is  only  to  be  paralleled  by  another  of  their  asser- 
tions, namely,  *  that  by  their  magic  might  they  can  reduce 
the  world  to  a  desert,  the  purest  waters  to  streams  of  livid 
poison,  and  the  clearest  lakes  to  stagnant  waters,  the  pesti- 
lential vapours  of  which  shall  slay  all  living  creatures,  except 
the  blood-thirsty  beast  of  the  forest,  and  the  ravenous  bird  of 
the  rock.  But  that  in  the  midst  of  this  desolation  the  palace 
of  the  Chief  Geni  shall  rise  sparkling  in  the  wilderness,  and 
the  horrible  howl  of  their  war  cry  shall  spread  over  the  land 
at  morning,  at  noontide  and  night ;  but  that  they  shall  have 
their  annual  feast  over  the  bones  of  the  dead,  and  shall 
yearly  rejoice  with  the  joy  of  victors.  I  think,  sir,  that  the 
horrible  wickedness  of  this  needs  no  remark,  and  therefore  I 
baste  to  subscribe  myself,  &c. 
''July  14,  1829." 

It  IS  not  unlikely  that  the  foregoing  letter  may  have  had 


78  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

Eome  allegorical  or  political  reference,  invisible  to  our  eyes, 
but  very  clear  to  the  bright  little  minds  for  whom  it  was 
intended.  Politics  were  evidently  their  grand  interest ;  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  their  demi-god.  All  that  related  to  him 
belonged  to  the  heroic  age.  Did  Charlotte  want  a  knight- 
errant,  or  a  devoted  lover,  the  Marquis  Douro,  or  Lord 
Charles  Wellesley,  came  ready  to  her  hand.  There  is  hardly 
one  of  her  prose  writings  at  this  time  in  which  they  aro 
not  the  principal  personages,  and  in  which  their  "  august 
father  "  does  not  appear  as  a  sort  of  Jupiter  Tnnans,  or  Deus 
ex  Machina. 

As  one  evidence  how  Wellesley  haunted  her  imagination, 
I  copy  out  a  few  of  the  titles  to  her  papers  in  the  various 
magazines. 

"  Liffey  Castle,"  a  Tale  by  Lord  C.  Wellesley. 

"  Lines  to  the  Kiver  Aragua,"  by  the  Marquis  of  Douro. 

"  An  Extraordinary  Dream,"  by  Lord  C.  Wellesley. 

''  The  Green  Dwarf,  a  Tale  of  the  Perfect  Tense,"  by  the 
Lord  Charles  Albert  Florian  Wellesley. 

"  Strange  Events,"  by  Lord  C.  A.  F.  Wellesley. 

Life  in  an  isolated  village,  or  a  lonely  country  house,  pre- 
sents many  little  occurrences  which  sink  into  the  mind  of 
childhood,  there  to  be  brooded  over.  No  other  event  may 
have  happened,  or  be  likely  to  happen,  for  days,  to  push  this 
aside,  before  it  has  assumed  a  vague  and  mysterious  import- 
ance. Thus,  children  leading  a  secluded  life  are  often 
thoughtful  and  dreamy :  the  impressions  made  upon  them  by 
the  world  without — the  unusual  sights  of  earth  and  sky — the 
accidental  meetings  with  strange  faces  and  figures — (rare 
occurrences  in  those  out-of-the-way  places) — are  sometimes 
magnified  by  them  into  things  so  deeply  significant  as  to 
be  almost  supernaturaL  This  peculiarity  I  perceive  very 
etrongly  in  Charlotte's  writings  at  this  time.  Indeed,  under 
the  circumstances,  it  is  no  peculiarity.     It  has  been  common 


MENTAL    TENDENCIES   AND   HOME   DUTIES.  79 

to  all,  from  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  the  "  lonely  herdsman 
stretched  on  the  green  sward  through  half  a  summer's  day '' 
— the  solitary  monk — to  all  whose  impressions  from  without 
have  had  time  to  grow  and  vivify  in  the  imagination,  till  they 
have  been  received  as  actual  personifications,  or  supernatural 
visions,  to  doubt  which  would  be  blasphemy. 

To  counterbalance  this  tendency  in  Charlotte,  was  the 
Btrong  common  sense  natural  to  her,  and  daily  called  into 
exercise  by  the  requirements  of  her  practical  life.  Her  duties 
were  not  merely  to  learn  her  lessons,  to  read  a  certain  quan- 
tity, to  gain  certain  ideas :  she  had,  besides,  to  brush  rooms, 
to  run  errands,  to  help  the  simpler  forms  of  cooking,  to  be  by 
turns  play-fellow  and ,  monitress  to  her  younger  sisters  and 
brothers,  to  make  and  to  mend,  and  to  study  economy  under 
her  careful  aunt.  Thus  we  see  that,  while  her  imagination 
received  powerful  impressions,  her  excellent  understanding 
had  full  power  to  rectify  them  before  her  fancies  became 
realities.  On  a  scrap  of  paper,  she  has  written  down  the 
following  relation : — 

"  June  22,  1830,  6  o\lock  p.  m. 
Haivorih^  near  Bradford, 

"  The  following  strange  occurrence  happened  on  the 
22nd  of  June,  1830  : — At  that  time  papa  was  very  ill,  confined 
to  his  bed,  and  so  weak  that  he  could  not  rise  without  assist- 
ance. Tabby  and  I  were  alone  in  the  kitchen,  about  half- 
past  nine,  ante  meridian.  Suddenly  we  heard  a  knock  at  the 
door;  Tabby  rose  and  opened  it.  An  old  man  appeared 
standing  without,  who  accosted  her  thus: — 

"  Old  Man. — ^  Does  the  parson  live  here  ?' 

"  Tally.—'  Yes.' 

"  OM  Man, — •  I  wish  to  see  him. 

1*  Tabby. — '  He  is  poorly  in  bed.' 


80  LIFE    OF    CHARLOTTE    BRONTE. 

"  Old  Man. — ^  I  have  a  message  for  him  ' 

"  Tally.—''  Who  from  V 

"  Old  Man.—'-  From  the  Lord." 

"  Tally.—'  Who  V 

^*  Old  Man. — ^  The  Lord.  He  desires  me  to  say  that 
tlie  bridegroom  is  comiDg,  and  that  we  must  prepare  to  meet 
him ;  that  the  cords  are  about  to  be  loosed,  and  the  golden 
bowl  broken ;  the  pitcher  broken  at  the  fountain.' 

"  Here  he  concluded  his  discourse,  and  abruptly  went 
his  way.  As  Tabby  closed  the  door,  I  asked  her  if  she  knew 
him.  Her  reply  was,  that  she  had  never  seen  him  before, 
nor  any  one  like  him.  Though  I  am  fully  persuaded  that  he 
was  some  fanatical  enthusiast,  well  meaning,  but  utterly 
ignorant  of  true  piety ;  yet  I  could  not  forbear  weeping  at 
his  words,  spoken  so  unexpectedly  at  that  particular  pe- 
riod.'' 

Though  the  date  of  the  following  poem  is  a  little  uncer- 
tain, it  may  be  most  convenient  to  introduce  it  here.  It 
must  have  been  written  before  1833,  but  how  much  earlier 
there  are  no  means  of  determining.  I  give  it  as  a  specimen 
of  the  remarkable  poetical  talent  shown  in  the  various  dimi- 
nutive writings  of  this  time ;  at  least,  in  all  of  them  which 
I  have  been  able  to  read. 

THE  WOUNDED  STAG. 

Passing  amid  the  deepest  shade 

Of  the  wood's  sombre  heart, 
Last  night  I  saw  a  wonnded  deer 

Laid  lonely  and  apart. 

Such  light  as  pierced  the  crowded  boughs 

(Light  scattered,  scant  and  dim,) 
Passed  through  the  fern  that  form'd  his  couch 

And  centred  full  on  him. 


A   YOUTHFUL   EFFUSION.  8.1 

Pain  trembled  in  his  weary  limbs, 

Pain  filled  Ms  patient  eye, 
Pain  crushed  amid  the  shadowy  fern 

His  branchy  crown  did  lie. 

Where  were  his  comrades  ?  where  his  mate  ? 

All  from  his  death-bed  gone  I 
And  he,  thus  struck  and  desolate, 

Suffered  and  bled  alone. 

Did  he  feel  what  a  man  might  feel 

Friend-left,  and  sore  distrest  ? 
Did, Pain's  keen  dart,  and  GriePs  sharp  stiiig 

Strive  in  his  mangled  breast  ? 

Did  longing  for  affection  lost 

Barb  every  deadly  dart ; 
Love  unrepaid,  and  Faith  betrayed, 

Did  these  torment  his  heart  ? 

No  !  leave  to  man  his  proper  doom  ? 

These  are  the  pangs  that  rise 
Aroand  the  bed  of  state  and  gloom, 

Wheix)  Adani'g  offspring  dies! 


82  T.IFE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BKONTK 


CHAPTER    VT. 

Tujfi  is  perhaps  a  fitting  time  to  give  some  personal  descrip- 
tion of  Miss  Bronte.  In  1831,  she  was  a  quiet,  thoughtful 
girl,  of  nearly  fifteen  years  of  age,  very  small  in  figure — • 
"  stunted  "  was  the  word  she  applied  to  herself, — ^but  as  her 
limbs  and  head  were  in  just  proportion  to  the  slight,  fragile 
body,  no  word  in  ever  so  slight  a  degree  suggestive  of  de- 
formity could  properly  be  applied  to  her ;  with  soft,  thick, 
brown  hair,  and  peculiar  eyes,  of  which  I  find  it  difficult  to 
give  a  description,  as  they  appeared  to  me  in  her  later  life. 
They  were  large,  and  well  shaped ;  their  colour  a  reddish 
brown ;  but  if  the  iris  was  closely  examined,  it  appeared  to 
be  composed  of  a  great  variety  of  tints.  The  usual  expres- 
sion was  of  quiet,  listening  intelligence ;  but  now  and  then, 
on  some  just  occasion  for  vivid  interest  or  wholesome  indig- 
nation, a  light  would  shine  out,  as  if  some  spiritual  lamp  had 
been  kindled,  which  glowed  behind  those  expressive  orbs.  I 
never  saw  the  like  in  any  other  human  creature.  As  for  the 
rest  of  her  features,  they  were  plain,  large,  and  ill  set ;  but, 
unless  you  began  to  catalogue  them,  you  were  hardly  aware 
of  the  fact,  for  the  eyes  and  power  of  the  countenance  over 
balanced  every  physical  defect ;  the  crooked  mouth  and  the 
large  nose  were  forgotten,  and  the  whole  face  arrested  the 
attention,  and  presently  attracted  all  those  whom  she  herself 
would  have  cared  to  attract.  Her  hands  and  feet  were  the 
smallest  I  ever  saw ;  when  one  of  the  former  was  placed  in 


MISS    WOOLEH'S    SCHOOL   AT   KOE   HEAD.  83 

mine,  it  was  like  the  soft  touch  of  a  bird  in  the  middle  of 
m  J  palm.  The  delicate  long  fingers  had  a  peculiar  fineness 
of  sensation,  which  was  one  reason  why  all  her  handiwork^ 
of  whatever  kind — writing,  sewing,  knitting — was  so  clear 
in  its  minuteness.  She  was  remarkably  neat  in  her  whole 
personal  attire ;  but  she  was  dainty  as  to  the  fit  of  her  shoes 
and  gloves. 

I  can  well  imagine  that  the  grave  serious  composure, 
which,  when  I  knew  her,  gave  her  face  the  dignity  of  an  old 
Venetian  portrait,  was  no  acquisition  of  later  years,  but 
dated  from  that  early  age  wjien  she  found  herself  in  the  posi- 
tion of  an  elder  sister  to  motherless  children.  But  in  a  girl 
only  just  entered  on  her  teens,  such  an  expression  would  be 
called,  (to  use  a  country  phrase)  "old-fashioned;"  and  in 
1831,  the  period  of  which  I  now  write,  we  must  think  of  her 
as  a  little,  set,  antiquated  girl,  very  quiet  in  manners,  and 
very  quaint  in  dress ;  for,  besides  the  influence  exerted  by 
her  father's  ideas  concerning  the  simplicity  of  attire  befitting 
the  wife  and  daughters  of  a  country  clergyman  (as  evinced 
in  his  destruction  of  the  coloured  boots  and  the  silk  gown), 
her  aunt,  on  whom  the  duty  of  dressing  her  nieces  princi- 
pally devolved,  had  never  boen  in  society  since  she  left 
Penzance,  eight  or  nine  years  before,  and  the  Penzance  fash- 
ions of  that  day  were  still  dear  to  her  heart. 

In  January,  1831,  Charlotte  was  sent  to  school  again. 
This  time  she  went  as  a  pupil  to  the  Miss  Woolers,  who  lived 
at  Roe  Head,  a  cheerful  roomy  country  house,  standing  a 
little  apart  in  a  field,  on  the  right  of  the  road  from  Leeds  to 
Huddersfield.  Two  tiers  of  old  fashioned  semi-circular  bow 
windows  run  from  basement  to  roof  of  Koe  Head  ;  and  look 
down  upon  a  long  green  slope  of  pasture-land,  ending  in  the 
pleasant  woods  of  Kirklees,  Sir  George  Armitage's  park 
Although  Roe  Head  and  Haworth  are  not  twenty  miles 
apart,  the  aspect  of  the  country  is  as  totally  dissimilar  as  if 


84:  LIFE   OF   CIIAELOTTE   BKONTE. 

tliey  enjoyed  a  different  climate.  The  soft  curving  and 
heaving  landscape  around  the  former  gives  a  strangei  the 
idea  of  cheerful  airiness  on  the  heights,  and  of  sunny  warmth  . 
in  the  broad  green  valleys  below.  It  is  just  such  a  neigh- 
bourhood as  the  monks  loved,  and  traces  of  the  old  Plan- 
tagenet  times  are  to  be  met  with  everywhere,  side  by  side 
with  the  manufacturing  interests  of  the  West  Riding  of  to- 
day. Here,  the  park  of  Kirklees,  full  of  sunny  glades, 
speckled  with  black  shadows  of  immemorial  yew-trees ;  the 
grey  pile  of  building,  formerly  a  "  House  of  professed 
Ladies ;  "  the  mouldering  stone  in  the  iepth  of  the  wood, 
under  which  Robin  Hood  is  said  to  lie ;  close  outside  the 
Park,  an  old  stone  gabled  house  now  a  roadside  inn,  but 
which  bears  the  name  of  the  "  Three  Nuns,"  and  has  a  pic- 
tured sign  to  correspond.  This  quaint  old  inn  is  frequented 
by  fustian-dressed  mill-hands  from  the  neighbouring  worsted 
factories,  which  strew  the  high  road  from  Leeds  to  Hudders- 
field,  and  form  the  centres  round  which  future  villages 
gather.  Such  are  the  contrasts  of  modes  of  living,  and  of 
times  and  seasons^  brought  before  the  traveller  on  the  great 
roads  that  traverse  the  West  Riding.  In  no  other  part  of 
England,  I  fancy,  are  the  centuries  brought  into  such  close, 
strang3  contact  as  in  the  district  in  which  Roe  Head  is  sit- 
uated Within  a  walk  from  Miss  Wooler's  house — on  the 
left  of  the  road,  coming  from  Leeds — lie  the  remains  of 
Howley  Hall,  now  the  property  of  Lord  Cardigan,  but 
formerly  belonging  to  a  branch  of  the  Saviles.  Near  to  it 
ia  Lady  Anne's  well ;  "  Lady  Anne,  according  to  tradition, 
having  been  worried  and  eaten  by  wolves  as  she  sat  at  the 
well,  to  which  the  indigo-dyed  factory  people  from  Rirstall 
and  Batley  woollen  mills  yet  repair  on  Palm  Sunday,  when 
the  waters  possess  remarkable  medicinal  efficacy ;  and  it  is 
litill  believed  tliat  they  assume  a  strange  variety  of  colours 
at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  on  that  day. 


NEIGHBOURHOOD    OF   KOE   HEAD.  85 

All  round  the  lands  held  by  the  farmer  who  lives  in  the 
remains  of  Howley  Hall,  are  stone  houses  of  to-day,  occupied 
by  the  people  who  are  making  their  living  and  their  fortunes 
by  the  woollen  mills  that  encroach  upon,  and  shoulder  out 
the  proprietors  of  the  ancient  halls.  These  are  to  be  seen 
in  every  direction,  picturesque,  many-gabled,  with  heavy 
tone  carvings  of  coats  of  arms  for  heraldic  ornament ;  be- 
longing to  decayed  families,  from  whose  ancestral  lands  field 
after  field  has  been  shorn  away,  by  the  urgency  of  rich  manu- 
facturers pressing  hard  upon  necessity. 

A  smoky  atmosphere  surrounds  these  old  dwellings  of 
former  Yorkshire  squires,  and  blights  and  blackens  the  an- 
cient trees  that  overshadow  them ;  cinder-paths  lead  up  to 
them ;  the  ground  round  about  is  sold  for  building  upon ; 
but  still  the  neighbours,  though  they  subsist  by  a  difi'erent 
state  of  things,  remember  that  their  forefathers  lived  in  agri- 
cultural dependence  upon  the  owners  of  these  halls ;  and 
treasure  up  the  traditions  connected  with  the  stately  house- 
holds that  existed  centuries  ago.  Take  Oakwell  Hall,  for 
instance.  It  stands  in  a  rough-looking  pasture-field,  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  high  road.  It  is  but  that  distance 
from  the  busy  whirr  of  the  steam-engines  employed  in  the 
woollen  mills  of  Birstall ;  and  if  you  walk  to  it  from  Birstall 
Station  about  meal- time,  you  encounter  strings  of  mill-hands, 
blue  with  woollen  dye,  and  cranching  in  hungry  haste  over 
the  cinder-patJis  bordering  the  high  road.  Turning  off  from 
this  to  the  right,  you  ascend  through  an  old  pasture-field, 
and  enter  a  short  by-road,  called  the  "  Bloody  Lane  " — a 
walk  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  a  certain  Captain  Batt,  the 
reprobate  proprietor  of  an  old  hall  close  by,  in  the  days  of 
the  Stuarts.  From  the  "  Bloody  Lane,''  overshadowed  by 
trees,  you  come  into  the  rough- looking  field  in  which  Oakwell 
Hall  is  situated.  It  is  known  in  the  neighbourhood  to  be 
the  place  described  as  "  Field  Head,"  Shirley's  residence. 


86  LITE    OF   CIIAELOTTE   BRONTE. 

The  enclosure  in  front,  half  court,  half  garden ;  the  panelled 
hall,  with  the  gallery  opening  into  the  bed-chambers  running 
round ;  the  barbarous  peach-coloured  drawing-room ;  the 
bright  look-out  through  the  garden-door  upon  the  grassy 
lawns  and  terraces  behind,  where  the  soft-hued  pigeons  still 
ove  to  coo  and  strut  in  the  sun, — are  described  in  "  Shirley." 
Ihe  scenery  of  that  fiction  lies  close  around  ;  the  real  events 
which  suggested  it  took  place  in  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood. 

They  show  a  bloody  footprint  in  a  bedchamber  of  Oak- 
well  Hall,  and  tell  a  story  connected  with  it,  and  with  the 
lane  by  which  the  house  is  approached.  Captain  Batt  was 
believed  to  be  far  away ;  his  family  was  at  Oakwell ;  when 
in  the  dusk,  one  winter  evening,  he  came  stalking  along  the 
lane,  and  through  the  hall,  and  up  the  stairs,  into  his  own 
?oom,  where  he  vanished.  He  had  been  killed  in  a  duel  in 
London  that  very  same  afternoon  of  December  9,  1684. 

The  stones  of  the  Hall  formed  part  of  the  more  ancient 
?icarage,  which  an  ancestor  of  Captain  Batt's  had  seized  in 
the  troublous  times  for  property  which  succeeded  the  Re- 
formation. This  Henry  Batt  possessed  himself  of  houses  and 
Eioney  without  scruple ;  and,  at  last,  stole  the  great  bell  of 
Birstall  Church,  for  which  sacrilegious  theft  a  fine  was  im- 
posed on  the  land;  and  has  to  be  paid  by  the  owner  of  the 
Hall  to  this  day. 

But  the  possession  of  the  Oakwell  property  passed  out 
of  the  hands  of  the  Batts  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  cen- 
tury ;  collateral  descendants  succeeded,  and  left  this  pictu- 
resque trace  of  their  having  been.  In  the  great  hall  hangs 
a  mighty  pair  of  stag's  horns,  and  dependent  from  them  a 
printed  card,  recording  the  fact  that,  on  the  1st  of  Septem- 
ber, 1763,  there  was  a  great  hunting-match,  when  this  stag 
was  slain ;  and  that  fourteen  gentlemen  shared  in  the  chase, 
and  dined  on  the  spoil  in  that   hall,  along  with  Fairfax 


ROE   IIE.VD    SCUOOL.  87 

Fearneley,  Esq.,  the  owner.  The  fourteen  names  are  given, 
doubtless  "  mighty  men  of  yore ;  "  but,  among  them  all.  Sir 
Fletcher  Norton,  Attorney- General,  and  Major-General 
Birch  were  the  only  ones  with  which  I  had  any  association 
in  1855.  Passing  on  from  Oakwell  there  lie  houses  right 
and  left,  which  were  well  known  to  Miss  Bronte  when  she 
lived  at  Koe  Head,  as  the  hospitable  homes  of  some  of  her 
schoolfellows.  Lanes  branch  off  to  heaths  and  commons  on 
the  higher  ground,  which  formed  pleasant  walks  on  holidays, 
and  then  comes  the  white  gate  into  the  field  path  leading  to 
Roe  Head  itself. 

One  of  the  bow-windowed  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  with 
the  pleasant  look-out  I  have  described,  was  the  drawing- 
room  ;  the  other  was  the  school-room.  The  dining-room  was 
on  one  side  of  the  door,  and  faced  the  road. 

The  number  of  pupils  ranged  from  seven  to  ten,  during 
the  two  years  Miss  Bronte  was  there ;  and  as  they  did  not 
require  the  whole  of  the  house  for  their  accommodation,  the 
third  story  was  unoccupied,  except  by  the  ghostly  idea  of  a 
lady,  whose  rustling  silk  gown  was  sometimes  heard  by  the 
listeners  at  the  foot  of  the  second  flight  of  stairs. 

The  kind  motherly  nature  of  Miss  Wooler,  and  the  small 
number  of  the  girls,  made  the  establishment  more  like  a  pri- 
vate family  than  a  school.  Moreover,  she  was  a  native  of 
the  district  immediately  surrounding  Koe  Head,  as  were  the 
majority  of  her  pupils.  Most  likely  Charlotte  Bronte,  in 
coming  from  Haworth,  came  the  greatest  distance  of  all. 
E.'s  home  was  five  miles  away ;  two  other  dear  friends  (the 
Rose  and  Jessie  Yorke  of  "  Shirley  ")  lived  still  nearer ;  two 
cr  three  came  from  Huddersfield ;  one  or  two  from  Leeds. 

I  shall  now  quote,  from  a  valuable  letter  which  I  have 
received  from  Mary,  one  of  these  early  friends  :  distinct  and 
graphic  in  expression,  as  becomes  a  cherished  associate  of 


88  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

Charlotte  Bronte's.  The  time  referred  to  is  her  first  ap 
pearance  at  Roe  Head,  on  January  19th,  1831. 

"  I  first  saw  her  coming  out  of  a  covered  cart,  in  very 
old-fashioned  clothes,  and  looking  very  cold  and  miserable. 
She  was  coming  to  school  at  Miss  Wooler's.  When  she  ap- 
peared in  the  schoolroom,  her  dress  was  changed,  but  just  as 
Id.  She  looked  a  little  old  woman,  so  short-sighted  that 
she  always  appeared  to  be  seeking  something,  and  moving 
her  head  from  side  to  side  to  catch  a  sight  of  it.  She  was 
very  shy  and  nervous,  and  spoke  with  a  strong  Irish  accent. 
When  a  book  was  given  her,  she  dropped  her  head  over  it 
till  her  nose  nearly  touched  it,  and  when  she  was  told  to 
hold  her  head  up,  up  went  the  book  after  it,  still  close  to  her 
nose,  so  that  it  was  not  possible  to  help  laughing." 

This  was  the  first  impression  she  made  upon  one  of  those 
whose  dear  and  valued  friend  she  was  to  become  in  after-life. 
Another  of  the  girls  recalls  her  first  sight  of  Charlotte,  on 
the  day  she  came,  standing  by  the  school-room  window,  look- 
ing out  on  the  snowy  landscape,  and  crying,  while  all  the 
rest  were  at  play.  E.  was  younger  than  she,  and  her  tender 
heart  was  touched  by  the  apparently  desolate  condition  in 
which  she  found  the  oddly-dressed,  odd-looking  little  girl 
that  winter  morning,  as  "  sick  for  home  she  stood  in  tears," 
in  a  new  strange  place,  among  new  strange  people.  Any 
over-demonstrative  kindness  would  have  scared  the  wild  little 
maiden  from  Haworth ;  but  E.  (who  is  shadowed  forth  in 
the  Caroline  Helstone  of^ "  Shirley  ")  managed  to  win  confi- 
dence, and  was  allowed  to  give  sympathy. 

To  quote  again  from  "  Mary's  "  letter  : — 

"  We  thought  her  very  ignorant,  for  she  had  never  learnt 
grammar  at  all,  and  very  little  geography." 

This  account  of  her  partial  ignorance  is  confirmed  by  her 
other  schoolfellows.  But  Miss  Wooler  was  a  lady  of  remark- 
•ble  intelligence  and   of  delicate  tender   sympathy.       She 


THE   BRONTE    MAGAZINE.  89 

gave  a  proof  of  this  in  her  first  treatment  of  Charlotte. 
The  little  girl  was  well  read  but  not  well  grounded.  Miss 
Wooler  took  her  aside  and  told  her  she  was  afraid  that  she 
must  place  her  in  the  second  class  for  some  time,  till  she 
could  overtake  the  girls  of  her  own  age  in  their  knowledge 
of  grammar,  &c. ;  but  poor  Charlotte  received  this  announce- 
ment by  so  sad  a  fit  of  crying,  that  Miss  Wooler's  kind  hean 
was  softened,  and  she  wisely  perceived  that,  with  such  a  girl, 
it  would  be  better  to  place  her  in  the  first  class,  and  allow 
her  to  make  up  by  private  study  in  those  branches  where  she 
was  deficient. 

"  She  would  confound  us  by  knowing  things  that  were 
out  of  our  range  altogether.  She  was  acquainted  with  most 
of  the  short  pieces  of  poetry  that  we  had  to  learn  by  heart ; 
would  tell  us  the  authors,  the  poems  they  were  taken  from, 
and  sometimes  repeat  a  page  or  two,  and  tell  us  the  plot. 
She  had  a  habit  of  writing  in  italics  (printing  characters) 
and  said  she  had  learnt  it  by  writing  in  their  magazine.  They 
brought  out  a  magazine  once  a  month  and  wished  it  to  look 
as  like  print  as  possible.  She  told  us  a  tale  out  of  it.  No 
one  wrote  in  it,  and  no  one  read  it,  but  herself,  her  brother, 
and  two  sisters.  She  promised  to  show  me  some  of  these 
magazines ;  but  retracted  it  afterwards,  and  would  never  be 
persuaded  to  do  so.  In  our  play  hours  she  sate,  or  stood 
still,  with  a  book,  if  possible.  Some  of  us  ©nee  urged  her 
to  be  on  our  side  in  a  game  at  ball.  She  said  she  had  never 
played,  and  could  not  play.  We  made  her  try,  but  soon 
found  that  she  could  not  see  the  ball,  so  we  put  her  out. 
She  took  all  our  proceedings  with  pliable  indiflPerence,  and 
always  seemed  to  need  a  previous  resolution  to  say  '  No  '  to 
anything.  She  used  to  go  and  stand  under  the  trees  in  tho 
play-ground,  and  say  it  was  pleasanter.  She  endeavoured  to 
explain  this,  pointing  out  the  shadows,  the  peeps  of  sky,  &c. 
We  understood  but  little  of  it.      She  said  that  at  Cowan 


90  LIFE    OF   CHARLOTTE   BKONTE. 

Bridge  she  used  to  stand  iu  the  burn,  on  a  stone  to  watch 
the  water  flow  bj.  I  told  her  she  should  have  gone  fishing  ; 
she  said  she  never  wanted.  She  always  showed  physical 
feebleness  in  everything,  She  ate  no  animal  food  at  school. 
It  was  about  this  time  I  told  her  she  was  very  ugly.  Some 
years  afterwards,  I  told  her  I  thought  I  had  been  very  im- 
pertinent. She  replied,  *  You  did  me  a  great  deal  of  good, 
Polly,  so  don't  repent  of  it.'  She  used  to  draw  much  better, 
and  more  quickly,  than  anything  we  had  seen  before,  and 
knew  much  about  celebrated  pictures  and  painters.  When- 
ever an  opportunity  offered  of  examining  a  picture  or  cut  of 
any  kind,  she  went  over  it  piecemeal,  with  her  eyes  close  to 
the  paper,  looking  so  long  that  we  used  to  ask  her  '  what  she 
saw  in  it.'  She  could  always  see  plenty,  and  explained  it 
very  well.  She  made  poetry  and  drawing,  at  least  exceed- 
ingly interesting  to  me  ;  and  then  I  got  the  habit,  which  I 
have  yet,  of  referring  mentally  to  her  opinion  on  all  matters 
of  that  kind,  along  with  many  more,  resolving  to  describe 
such  and  such  things  to  her,  until  I  start  at  the  recollection 
that  I  never  shall." 

To  feel  the  full  force  of  this  last  sentence — to  show  how 
steady  and  vivid  was  the  impression  which  Miss  Bronte  made 
on  those  fitted  to  appreciate  her — T  must  mention  that  the 
writer  of  this  letter,  dated  January  18th,  1856,  in  which 
she  thus  speaks  of  constantly  referring  to  Charlotte's  opinion, 
has  never  seen  her  for  eleven  years,  nearly  all  of  which 
have  been  passed  among  strange  scenes,  in  a  new  continent, 
at  the  antipodes. 

"  We  used  to  be  furious  politicians,  as  one  could  hard- 
ly help  being  in  1832.  She  knew  the  names  of  the  two 
ministries ;  the  one  that  resigned,  and  the  one  that  succeeded 
and  passed  the  Reform  Bill.  She  worshipped  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  but  said  that  Sir  Robert  Peel  was  not  to  be 
trus^^d ;    he  did  not  act  from  principle  like  the  rest,  bul 


EXTRACT   FROM   A    LETTER.  91 

from  expediency.  I,  being  of  the  furious  radical  party^ 
told  her  ^  how  could  any  of  them  trust  one  another ;  they 
were  all  of  them  rascals  ! '  Then  she  would  launch  out  into 
praises  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  referring  to  his  actions ; 
which  I  could  not  contradict,  as  I  knew  nothing  about  him. 
She  said  she  had  taken  an  interest  in  politics  ever  since  she 
was  five  years  old.  She  did  not  get  her  opinions  from  her 
father — that  is,  not  directly — but  from  the  papers,  &c.,  he 
preferred." 

In  illustration  of  the  truth  of  this,  I  may  give  an  extract 
from  a  letter  to  her  brother,  written  from  Roe  Head,  May, 
17th,  1832  : — *'  Lately  I  had  begun  to  think  that  I  had  lost 
all  the  interest  which  I  used  formerly  to  take  in  politics ; 
but  the  extreme  pleasure  I  felt  at  the  news  of  the  Keform 
Bill's  being  thrown  out  by  the  House  of  Lords,  and  of  the 
expulsion,  or  resignation,  of  Earl  Grey,  &c.,  convinced  me 
that  I  have  not  as  yet  lost  all  my  penchant  for  politics.  I 
am  extremely  glad  that  aunt  has  consented  to  take  in  *  Fra- 
zer's  Magazine ; '  for,  though  I  know  from  your  description 
of  its  general  contents  it  will  be  rather  uninteresting  when 
compared  with  *  Blackwood,'  still  it  will  be  better  than  re- 
maining the  whole  year  without  being  able  to  obtain  a  sight 
of  any  periodical  whatever ;  and  such  would  assuredly  be  our 
case,  as,  in  the  little  wild  moorland  village  where  we  reside, 
there  would  be  no  possibility  of  borrowing  a  work  of  that 
description  from  a  circulating  library.  I  hope  with  you 
that  the  present  delightful  weather  may  contribute  to  the 
perfect  restoration  of  our  dear  papa's  health;  and  that  it 
may  give  aunt  pleasant  reminiscences  of  the  salubrious  cli 
mate  of  her  native  place,"  &c. 

To  return  to  Mary's  letter. 

"  She  used  to  speak  of  her  two  elder  sisters,  Maria  and 
Elizabeth,  who  died  at  Cowan  Bridge.  I  used  to  believe 
them  to  have  been  wonders  of  talent  and  kindness.     She  told 


92  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

me,  early  one  morning,  that  she  had  just  been  dreaming, 
she  had  been  told  that  she  was  wanted  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  it  was  Maria  and  Elizabeth.  I  was  eager  for  her  to  go 
on,  and  when  she  said  there  was  no  more,  I  said,  *  but  go  on ! 
Make  it  out/  I  know  you  can.'  She  said  she  would  not* 
she  wished  she  had  not  dreamed,  for  it  did  not  go  on  nicely 
they  were  changed ;  they  had  forgotten  what  they  used  to 
care  for.  They  were  very  fashionably  dressed,  and  began 
criticising  the  room,  &c. 

"  This  habit  of  ^  making  out '  interests  for  themselves, 
that  most  children  get  who  have  none  in  actual  life,  was  very 
strong  in  her.  The  whole  family  used  to  ^  make  out '  histo- 
ries, and  invent  characters  and  events.  I  told  her  some- 
times they  were  like  growing  potatoes  in  a  cellar.  She  said, 
sadly,  *  Yes !  I  know  we  are  ! '  " 

What  I  have  heard  of  her  school  days  from  other  sources, 
confirms  the  accuracy  of  the  details  in  this  remarkable  let- 
ter. She  was  an  indefatigable  student :  constantly  reading 
and  learning ;  with  a  strong  conviction  of  the  necessity  and 
value  of  education,  very  unusual  in  a  girl  of  fifteen.  She 
never  lost  a  moment  of  time,  and  seemed  almost  to  grudge 
the  necessary  leisure  for  relaxation  and  play-hours,  which 
might  be  partly  accounted  for  by  the  awkwardness  in  all 
games  occasioned  by  her  shortness  of  sight.  Yet,  in  spite  of 
these  unsociable  habits,  she  was  a  great  favourite  with  her 
school-fellows.  She  was  always  ready  to  try  and  do  what 
they  wished,  though  not  sorry  when  they  called  her  awkward, 
and  left  her  out  of  their  sports.  Then,  at  night,  she  was  an 
invaluable  story-teller,  frightening  them  almost  out  of  their 
wits  as  they  lay  in  bed.  On  one  occasion  the  efiect  was  such 
that  she  was  led  to  scream  out  loud,  and  Miss  Wooler,  com- 
ing up-stairs,  found  that  one  of  the  listeners  had  been  seized 
with  violent  palpitations,  in  consequence  of  the  excitement 
produced  by  Charlotte's  story. 


HER   SCHOOL-DAYS    AT   MISS   WOOLEr's.  93 

ller  indefatigable  craving  for  knowledge  tempted  Miss 
Wooler  on  into  setting  her  longer  and  longer  tasks  of  read- 
ing for  examination ;  and  towards  the  end  of  the  two  years 
that  she  remained  as  a  pupil  at  Roe  Head,  she  received  her 
first  bad  mark  for  an  imperfect  lesson.  She  had  had  a  great 
quantity  of  Blair's  "  Lectures  on  Belles-Lettres  "  to  read ; 
and  she  could  not  answer  some  of  the  questions  upon  it: 
Charlotte  Bronte  had  a  bad  mark.  Miss  Wooler  was  sorry, 
and  regretted  that  she  had  over-tasked  so  willing  a  pupil. 
Charlotte  cried  bitterly.  But  her  school-fellows  were  more 
than  sorry — they  were  indignant.  They  declared  that  the 
infliction  of  ever  so  slight  a  punishment  on  Charlotte  Bronte 
Tras  unjust — for  who  had  tried  to  do  her  duty  like  her  ? — and 
testified  their  feeling  in  a  variety  of  ways,  until  Miss  Wooler-, 
who  was  in  reality  only  too  willing  to  pass  over  her  good 
pupil's  first  fault,  withdrew  the  bad  mark,  and  the  girls  all 
returned  to  their  allegiance  except  "  Mary,"  who  took  her 
own  way  during  the  week  or  two  that  remained  of  the  half- 
year,  choosing  to  consider  Miss  Wooler's  injustice,  in  giving 
Cliarlotte  Bronte  a  longer  task  than  she  could  possibly  pre- 
pare, as  a  reason  for  no  longer  obeying  any  of  the  school 
regulations. 

The  number  of  pupils  was  so  small  that  the  attendance 
to  certain  subjects  at  particular  hours,  common  in  larger 
schools,  was  not  rigidly  enforced.  When  the  girls  were 
ready  with  their  lessons,  they  came  to  Miss  Wooler  to  say 
them.  She  had  a  remarkable  knack  of  making  them  feel  in- 
terested in  whatever  they  had  to  learn.  They  set  to  their 
studies,  not  as  to  tasks  or  duties  to  be  got  through,  but  with 
a  healthy  desire  and  thirst  for  knowledge,  of  which  she  had 
managed  to  make  them  perceive  the  relishing  savour.  They 
did  not  leave  off  reading  and  learning  as  soon  as  the  compul- 
sory pressure  of  school  was  taken  away.  They  had  been 
taught  to  think,  to  analyze,  to  reject,  to  appreciate.     Char- 


91  LIFE   OF   CIIARLOITE   BRONTE. 

lotte  Bronte  was  happy  in  tlie  choice  made  for  her  of  the 
second  school  to  which  she  was  sent.  There  was  a  robust 
freedom  in  the  out-of-doors  life  of  her  companions.  The}' 
played  at  merry  games  in  the  fields  round  the  house :  on 
Saturday  half-holidays  they  went  long  scrambling  walks 
down  mysterious  shady  lanes,  then  climbing  the  uplands,  and 
thus  gaining  extensive  views  over  the  country,  about  which 
so  much  had  to  be  told,  both  of  its  past  and  present  his- 
tory. 

Miss  Wooler  must  have  had  in  great  perfecticfa  the 
French  art,  "  conter,"  to  judge  from  her  pupil's  recoxlections 
of  the  tales  she  related  during  these  long  walks,  of  this  old 
house,  or  that  new  mill,  and  of  the  states  of  society  conse- 
quent on  the  changes  involved  by  the  suggestive  dates  of 
either  building.  She  remembered  the  times  when  watchers 
cr  wakeners  in  the  night  heard  the  distant  word  of  command, 
and  the  measured  tramp  of  thousands  of  sad  desperate  men 
receiving  a  surreptitious  military  training,  in  preparation  for 
some  great  day  which  they  saw  in  their  visions,  when  right 
should  struggle  with  might  and  come  off  victorious :  when 
the  people  of  England,  represented  by  the  workers  of  York- 
shire, Lancashire,  and  Nottinghamshire,  should  make  their 
voice  heard  in  a  terrible  slogan,  since  their  true  and  pitiful 
complaints  could  find  no  hearing  in  Parliament.  We  forget, 
noYT-a-days,  so  rapid  have  been  the  changes  for  the  better, 
how  cruel  was  the  condition  of  numbers  of  laborers  at  the 
close  of  the  great  Peninsular  war.  The  half-ludicrous  nature 
of  some  of  their  grievances  has  lingered  on  in  tradition ;  the 
real  intensity  of  their  sufferings  is  now  forgotten.  They 
were  maddened  and  desperate  ;  and  the  country,  in  the 
opinion  of  many,  seemed  to  be  on  the  verge  of  a  precipice 
from  which  it  was  only  saved  by  the  prompt  and  resolute 
decision  of  a  few  in  authority.  Miss  Wooler  spoke  of  those 
times ;  of  the   mysterious  nightly  drillings ;  of  thousands  on 


MR.    CARTWRIGHT    AND    THE   LUDDITES.  95 

lonely  moors ;  of  the  muttered  threats  of  individuals  tod 
closely  pressed  upon  by  necessity  to  be  prudent;  of  the 
overt  acts,  in  which  the  burning  of  Cartwright's  mill  took  a 
prominent  place ;  and  these  things  sank  deep  into  the  mind 
of  one,  at  least,  among  her  hearers. 

Mr.  Cartwright  was  the  owner  of  a  factory  called  Raw- 
folds,  in  Liversedge,  not  beyond  the  distance  of  a  walk  from 
Roe  Head.  He  had  dared  to  employ  machinery  for  the 
dressing  of  woollen  cloth,  which  was  an  unpopular  measure 
in  1812,  when  many  other  circumstances  conspired  to  make 
the  condition  of  the  mill-hands  unbearable  from  the  pressure 
of  starvation  and  misery.  Mr.  Cartwright  was  a  very  re- 
markable man,  having,  as  I  have  been  told,  some  foreign 
blood  in  him,  the  traces  of  which  were  very  apparent  in  his 
tall  figure,  dark  eyes  and  complexion,  and  singular,  though 
gentlemanly  bearing.  At  any  rate,  he  had  been  much  abroad, 
and  spoke  French  well,  of  itself  a  suspicious  circumstance  to 
the  bigoted  nationality  of  those  days.  Altogether  he  was 
an  unpopular  man,  even  before  he  took  the  last  step  of  em- 
ploying shears,  instead  of  hands,  to  dress  his  wool.  He  was 
quite  aware  of  his  unpopularity,  and  of  the  probable  conse- 
quences. He  had  his  mill  prepared  for  an  assault.  He  took 
up  his  lodgings  in  it ;  and  the  doors  were  strongly  barricaded 
at  night.  On  every  step  of  the  stairs  there  was  placed  a 
roller,  spiked  with  barbed  points  all  round,  so  as  to  impede 
the  ascent  of  the  rioters,  if  they  succeeded  in  forcing  the 
doors.  On  the  night  of  Saturday  the  11th  of  April,  1812, 
the  assault  was  made.  Some  hundreds  of  starving  cloth- 
dressers  assembled  in  the  very  field  near  Kirklees  that 
gloped  down  from  the  house  which  Miss  Wooler  afterwards 
Inhabited,  and  were  armed  by  their  leaders  with  pistols, 
Hatchets,  and  bludgeons,  many  of  which  had  been  extorted 
by  the  nightly  bands  that  prowled  about  the  country,  from 
buch  inhabitants  of  lonely  houses  as  had  provided  themselves 


96  T.IFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

with  these  means  of  self-defence.  The  silent  sullen  multi- 
tude marched  in  the  dead  of  that  spring-night  to  Rawfolds, 
and  giving  tongue  with  a  great  shout,  roused  Mr.  Cartwright 
up  to  the  knowledge  that  the  long-expected  attack  was  come. 
He  was  within  walls,  it  is  true ;  but  against  the  fury  of 
hundreds  he  had  only  four  of  his  own  workmen  and  five 
soldiers  to  assist  him.  These  ten  men,  however,  managed  to 
keep  up  such  a  vigorous  and  well-directed  fire  of  musketry 
that  they  defeated  all  the  desperate  attempts  of  the  multi- 
tude outside  to  break  down  the  doors,  and  force  a  way  into 
the  mill;  and,  after  a  conflict  of  twenty  minutes,  during 
which  two  of  the  assailants  were  killed  and  several  wounded, 
they  withdrew  in  confusion,  leaving  Mr.  Cartwright  master 
of  the  field,  but  so  dizzy  and  exhausted,  now  the  peril  was 
past,  that  he  forgot  the  nature  of  his  defences,  and  injured 
his  leg  rather  seriously  by  one  of  the  spiked  rollers,  in  at- 
tempting to  go  up  his  own  staircase.  His  dwelling  was  near 
the  factory.  Some  of  the  rioters  vowed  that  if  he  did  not 
give  in,  they  would  leave  this,  and  go  to  his  house,  and  mur- 
der his  wife  and  children.  This  was  a  terrible  threat,  for 
"he  had  been  obliged  to  leave  his  family  with  only  one  or  two 
soldiers  to  defend  the  house.  Mrs.  Cartwright  knew  what 
they  had  threatened  ;  and  on  that  dreadful  night  hearing,  as 
she  thought,  steps  approaching,  she  snatched  up  her  two  in- 
fant children,  and  put  them  in  a  basket  up  the  great  chimney, 
common  in  old-fashioned  Yorkshire  houses.  One  of  the  two 
children  who  had  been  thus  stowed  away,  used  to  point  out 
with  pride,  after  she  had  grown  up  to  woman's  estate,  the 
marks  of  musket-shot,  and  the  traces  of  gunpowder  on  the 
walls  of  her  father's  mill.  He  was  the  first  that  had  ofiered 
any  resistance  to  the  progress  of  the  "  Luddites,"  who  had 
become  by  this  time  so  numerous  as  almost  to  assume  the 
character  of  an  insurrectionary  army.  Mr.  Cartwright's 
conduct  was  so  much  admired  by  the  neighbouring   mill- 


MK.    CAKTWKIGHT   AND   THE   RTJDDEES.  97 

owners  that  they  entered  into  a  subscription  for  his  benefit, 
which  amounted  in  the  end  to  3,000?. 

Not  much  more  than  a  fortnight  after  this  attack  on 
Eawfolds,  another  manufacturer  who  employed  the  obnoxious 
machinery,  was  shot  down  in  broad  daylight,  as  he  was  pass- 
ing over  Crossland  Moor,  which  was  skirted  by  a  small  plan- 
tation in  which  the  murderers  lay  hidden.  The  readers  of 
"  Shirley "  will  recognise  these  circumstances,  which  were 
related  to  Miss  Bronte  years  after  they  occurred,  but  on  the 
very  spots  where  they  took  place,  and  by  persons  who  remem- 
bered full  well  those  terrible  times  of  insecurity  to  life  and 
property  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  iitter  starvation  and  blind 
ignorant  despair  on  the  other. 

Mr.  Bronte  himself-  had  been  living  amongst  these  very 
people  in  1812,  as  he  was  then  clergyman  at  Hartshead,  not 
three  miles  from  Rawfolds ;  and,  as  I  have  mentioned,  it  was 
in  these  perilous  times  that  he  began  his  custom  of  carrying 
a  loaded  pistol  continually  about  with  him.  For  not  only 
his  Tory  politics,  but  his  love  and  regard  for  the  authority 
of  the  law,  made  him  despise  the  cowardice  of  the  surround- 
ing magistrates,  who,  in  their  dread  of  the  Luddites,  refused 
to  interfere,  so  as  to  prevent  the  destruction  of  property. 
The  clergy  of  the  district  were  the  bravest  men  by  far. 
There  was  a  Mr.  Roberson,  of  Heald's  Hall,  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Bronte's,  who  has  left  a  deep  impression  of  himself  on  the 
public  mind.  He  lived  near  Heckmondwike,  a  large,  strag- 
gling, dirty  village,  not  two  miles  from  Eoe  Head.  It  was 
principally  inhabited  by  blanket  weavers,  who  worked  in 
heir  own  cottages ;  and  Heald's  Hall  is  the  largest  house  in 
he  village,  of  which  Mr.  Roberson  was  the  vicar.  At  his 
own  cost,  he  built  a  handsome  church  at  Liversedge,  on  a 
hill  opposite  the  one  on  which  his  house  stood,  which  was 
the  first  attempt  in  the  "West  Riding  to  meet  the  wants  of 
the  overgrown  population,  and  made  many  personal  sacrifices 

VOL.  I — 5 


98  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   EHONTE. 

for  his  opinlonSj  botli  religious  and  political,  which  were  of 
the  true  old-fashioned  Tory  stamp.  He  hated  everything 
which  he  fancied  had  a  tendency  towards  anarchy.  He  was 
loyal  in  every  fibre  to  Church  and  king ;  and  would  have 
proudly  laid  down  his  life,  any  day,  for  what  he  believed  to 
be  right  and  true.  But  he  was  a  man  of  an  imperial  will, 
and  by  it  he  bore  down  opposition,  till  tradition  represents 
him  as  having  something  grimly  demoniac  about  him.  He 
was  intimate  with  Cartwright,  and  aware  of  the  attack  likely 
to  be  made  on  his  mill ;  accordingly,  it  is  said,  he  armed  him- 
self and  his  household,  and  was  prepared  to  come  to  the  res- 
cue, in  the  event  of  a  signal  being  given  that  aid  was  needed. 
Thus  far  is  likely  enough.  Mr.  Eoberson  had  plenty  of 
warlike  spirit  in  him,  man  of  peace  though  he  was.  But,  in 
consequence  of  his  having  taken  the  unpopular  side,  exaggera- 
tions of  his  character  linger  as  truth  in  the  minds  of  the 
people ;  and  a  fabulous  story  is  told  of  his  forbidding  any 
one  to  give  water  to  the  wounded  Luddites,  left  in  the  mill- 
yard,  when  he  rode  in  the  next  morning  to  congratulate  his 
friend  Cartwright  on  his  successful  defence.  Moreover,  this 
stern,  fearless  clergyman  had  the  soldiers  that  were  sent  to 
defend  the  neighbourhood  billeted  at  his  house;  and  this 
deeply  displeased  the  work-people,  who  were  to  be  intimidated 
by  the  red-coats.  Although  not  a  magistrate,  he  spared  no 
pains  to  track  out  the  Luddites  concerned  in  the  assassination 
I  have  mentioned ;  and  was  so  successful  in  his  acute  un- 
flinching energy,  that  it  was  believed  he  had  been  supernatu- 
rally  aided ;  and  the  country  people,  stealing  into  the  field 
surrounding  Heald's  Hall  on  dusky  winter  evenings,  years 
after  this  time,  declared  that  through  the  windows  they  saw 
Parson  Boberson  dancing,  in  a  strange  red  light,  with  black 
demons  all  whirling  and  eddying  round  him  He  kept  a 
large  boys'  school ;  and  made  himself  both  respected  and 
dreaded  by  his  pupils.     He  added  a  grim  kind  of  humour  to 


BETTY    HAD    "A   FOLLOWER."  99 

liis  strength  of  will ;  and  the  former  quality  suggested  to  hia 
fancy  strange  out-of-the-way  kinds  of  punishment  for  any 
refractory  pupils :  for  instance,  he  made  them  stand  on  one 
leg  in  a  corner  of  the  school-room,  holding  a  heavy  book  in 
each  hand ;  and  once,  when  a  boy  had  run  away  home,  he 
followed  him  on  horseback,  reclaimed  him  from  his  parents 
and,  tying  him  by  a  rope  to  the  stirrup  of  his  saddle,  made 
him  run  alongside  of  his  horse  for  the  many  miles  they  had 
to  traverse  before  reaching  Heald's  Hall.     One  other  illus- 
tration of  his  character  may  be  given.     He  discovered  that 
his  servant  Betty  had  "  a  follower ;  "  and,  watching  his  time 
till  Richard  was  found  in  the  kitchen,  he  ordered  him  into 
the  dining-room,  where  the  pupils  were  all  assembled.     He 
then  questioned  Richard  whether  he  had  come  after  Betty ; 
and  on  his  confessing  the  truth,  Mr.  Roberson  gave  the  word, 
"  Off  with  him,  lads,  to  the  pump."     The  poor  lover  was 
dragged  to  the  courtyard,  and  the  pump  set  to  play  upon 
him ;  and,  between  every  drenching,  the  question  was  put  to 
uim,  "  Will  you  promise  not  to  come  after  Betty  again  ? '" 
for  a  long  time  Richard  bravely  refused  to  give  in ;  when 
'*  Pump  again,  lads  !  "  was  the  order.     But,  at  last,  the  poor 
ioaked  "  follower  "  was  forced  to  yield,  and  renounce  his 
Beiwy.     The  Yorkshire  character  of  Mr.  Roberson  would  be 
'.nco-iiiplete  if  I  did  not  mention  his  fondness  for  horses.     He 
lived  to  be  a  very  old  man,  dying  sometime  nearer  to  1840 
khan  1830  ;  and  even  after  he  was  eighty  years  of  age,  he 
look  gj  sat  delight  in  breaking  refractory  steeds ;  if  neces- 
sary, ho  would  sit  motionless  on  their  backs  for  half-an-hour 
?r  mor(^,  to  bring  them  to.     There  is  a  story  current  that 
^nee,  in  ;i  passion,  he  shot  his  wife's  favourite  horse,  and 
feuried  it  near  a  quarry,  where  the  ground,  some  years  after, 
miraculo\r:sly  opened  and  displayed  the  skeleton;    but  the 
real  fact  is,  that  it  was  an  act  of  humanity  to  put  a  poor  old 
horse  out  of  misery ;  and  that,  to  spare  it  pain,  he  shot  it 


100  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

with  his  own  hands,  and  buried  it  where  the  ground  sinking 
afterwards  bj  the  working  of  a  eoal-pit,  the  bones  came  to 
light.  The  traditional  colouring  shows  the  animus  with 
which  his  memory  is  regarded  by  one  set  of  people.  By 
aR-Q^her,  the  neighbouring  clergy,  who  remember  him  riding, 
in  his  old  age,  down  the  hill  on  which  his  house  stood,  upon 
his  strong  white  horse — his  bearing  proud  and  dignified,  his 
shovel  hat  bent  over  and  shadowing  his  keen  eagle  eyes — 
going  to  his  Sunday  duty,  like  a  faithful  soldier  that  dies  in 
harness — who  can  appreciate  his  loyalty  to  conscience,  his 
sacrifices  for  duty,  and  his  stand  by  his  religion — his  memory 
is  venerated.  In  his  extreme  old  age,  a  rubric-meeting  was 
held,  at  which  his  clerical  brethren  gladly  subscribed  to 
present  him  with  a  testimonial  of  their  deep  respect  and 
regard. 

This  is  a  specimen  of  the  strong  character  not  seldom 
manifested  by  the  Yorkshire  clergy  of  the  Established 
Church.  Mr.  Eoberson  was  a  friend  of  Charlotte  Bronte's 
father ;  lived  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  Roe  Head  while 
she  was  at  school  there ;  and  was  deeply  engaged  in  transac- 
tions, the  memory  of  which  was  yet  recent  when  she  heard 
of  them,  and  of  the  part  which  he  had  had  in  them.  I  may 
now  say  a  little  on  the  character  of  the  Dissenting  popula- 
tion immediately  surrounding  Boe  Head ;  for  the  "  Tory  and 
clergyman's  daughter,"  "  taking  interest  in  politics  ever  since 
she  was  five  years  old,"  and  holding  frequent  discussions  with 
such  of  the  girls  as  were  Dissenters  and  Radicals,  was  sure 
to  have  made  herself  as  much  acquainted  as  she  could  with 
the  condition  of  those  to  whom  she  was  opposed  in  opinion. 

The  bulk  of  the  population  were  Dissenters,  principally 
Independents.  In  the  village  of  Heckmondwike,  at  one  end 
of  which  Boe  Head  is  situated,  there  were  two  large  chapels, 
belonging  to  that  denomination,  and  one  to  the  Methodists, 
all  of  which  were  well  filled  two  or  three  times  on  a  Sunday 


SCENES    AT   HECKMONDWIKE   CHAPELS.  101 

besides  having  various  prayer-meetings,  fully  attended,  on 
week-days.  The  inhabitants  were  a  chapel-going  people, 
very  critical  about  the  doctrine  of  their  sermons,  tyrannical 
to  their  ministers,  and  violent  Radicals  in  politics.  A  friend, 
•  well  acquainted  with  the  place  when  Charlotte  Bronte  was 
at  school,  has  described  some  events  which  occurred  then 
among  them : — 

"  A  scene,  which  took  place  at  the  Lower  Chapel  at 
Ileckmondwike,  will  give  you  some  idea  of  the  people  at  that 
time.  When  a  newly-married  couple  made  their  appearance 
at  chapel,  it  was  the  custom  to  sing  the  Wedding  Anthem, 
just  after  the  last  prayer,  and  as  the  congregation  was  quit- 
ting the  chapel.  The  band  of  singers  who  performed  this 
ceremony  expected  to  have  money  given  them,  and  often 
passed  the  following  night  in  drinking ;  at  least,  so  said  the 
minister  of  the  place ;  and  he  determined  to  put  an  end  to 
this  custom.  In  this  he  was  supported  by  many  members  of 
the  chapel  and  congregation ;  but  so  strong  was  the  demo- 
cratic element,  that  he  met  with  the  most  violent  opposition, 
and  was  often  insulted  when  he  went  into  the  street.  A 
bride  was  expected  to  make  her  first  appearance,  and  the 
minister  told  the  singers  not  to  perform  the  anthem.  On 
their  declaring  they  would,  he  had  the  large  pew  which  they 
usually  occupied  locked ;  they  broke  it  open :  from  the  pul- 
pit he  told  the  congregation  that,  instead  of  their  singing  a 
hymn,  he  would  read  a  chapter.  Hardly  had  he  uttered  the 
first  word,  before  up  rose  the  singers,  headed  by  a  tall,  fierce- 
looking  weaver,  who  gave  out  a  hymn,  and  all  sang  it  at  the 
very  top  of  their  voices,  aided  by  those  of  their  friends  who 
were  in  the  chapel.  Those  who  disapproved  of  the  conduct 
of  the  singers,  and  sided  with  the  minister,  remained  seated 
till  the  hymn  was  finished.  Then  he  gave  out  the  chapter 
again,  read  it,  and  preached.  He  was  just  about  to  con- 
clude with  prayer,  when  up  started  the  singers  and  screamed 


102  IJFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

forth  another  hymn.  These  disgraceful  scenes  were  con« 
tinued  for  many  weeks,  and  so  violent  was  the  feeling,  that 
the  different  parties  could  hardly  keep  from  blows  as  they 
came  through  the  chapel-yard.  The  minister,  at  last,  left 
the  place,  and  along  with  him  went  many  of  the  most  tem- 
perate and  respectable  part  of  the  congregation,  and  the 
singers  remained  triumphant. 

"  I  believe  that  there  was  such  a  violent  contest  respect- 
ing the  choice  of  a  pastor,  about  this  time,  in  the  upper  chapel 
at  Heckmondwike,  that  the  Riot  Act  had  to  be  read  at  a 
church-meeting. ' ' 

Certainly,  the  soi-disant  Christians  who  forcibly  ejected 
Mr.  Redhead  at  Haworth,  ten  or  twelve  years  before,  held  a 
very  heathen  brotherhood  with  the  soi-disant  Christians  of 
Heckmondwike  ;  though  the  one  set  might  be  called  mem- 
bers of  the  Church  of  England,  and  the  other  Dissenters. 

The  letter  from  which  I  have  taken  the  above  extract 
relates  throughout  to  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  the 
place  where  Charlotte  Bronte  spent  her  school  days,  and 
describes  things  as  they  existed  at  that  very  time.  The 
writer  says, — "  Having  been  accustomed  to  the  respectful 
manners  of  the  lower  orders  in  the  agricultural  districts,  I 
was,  at  first,  much  disgusted  and  somewhat  alarmed  at  the 
great  freedom  displayed  by  the  working  classes  of  Heck- 
mondwike and  Gromersall  to  those  in  a  station  above  them. 
The  term  *  lass  '  was  as  freely  applied  to  any  young  lady,  as 
the  word  ^  wench  '  is  in  Lancashire.  The  extremely  untidy 
appearance  of  the  villages  shocked  me  not  a  little,  though  I 
must  do  the  housewives  the  justice  to  say  that  the  cottages 
themselves  were  not  dirty,  and  had  an  air  of  rough  plenty 
about  them  (except  when  trade  was  bad),  that  I  had  not  been 
accustomed  to  see  in  the  farming  districts.  The  heap  of 
coals  on  one  side  of  the  house-door,  and  the  brewing  tubs  on 
the  other,  and  the  frequent  perfume  of  malt  and  hops  as  you 


CHARACTERISTICS    OF   HECKMONDWIKE.  103 

v^alked  along,  proved  that  fire  and  "  home-brewed"  were  to 
be  found  at  almost  every  man's  hearth.  Nor  was  hospital- 
ity^ one  of  the  main  virtues  of  Yorkshire,  wanting.  Oat- 
cake, cheese,  and  beer,  were  freely  pressed  upon  the  visitor. 

^*  There  used  to  be  a  yearly  festival,  half  religious,  half 
social,  held  at  Heckmondwike,  called  ^  The  Lecture.'  I  fancy 
it  had  come  down  from  the  times  of  the  Nonconformists.  A 
sermon  was  preached  by  some  stranger  at  the  Lower  Chapel, 
on  a  week  day  evening,  and  the  next  day  two  sermons  in  suc- 
cession were  delivered  at  the  Upper  Chapel.  Of  course,  tho 
service  was  a  very  long  one,  and  as  the  time  was  June,  and 
the  weather  often  hot,  it  used  to  be  regarded  by  myself  and 
my  companions  as  no  pleasurable  way  of  passing  the  morn- 
ing. The  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  in  social  enjoyment ; 
great  numbers  of  strangers  flocked  to  the  place ;  booths  were 
erected  for  the  sale  of  toys  and  gingerbread  (a  sort  of  ^  Holy 
Fair ') ;  and  the  cottages  having  had  a  little  extra  paint  and 
white-washing,  assumed  quite  a  holiday  look. 

"  The  village  of  Gomersall  "  (where  Charlotte  Bronte's 
frtend  ^  Mary  '  lived  with  her  family),  "  which  was  a  much 
prettier  place  than  Heckmondwike,  contained  a  strange-look- 
ing cottage,  built  of  rough  unhewn  stones,  many  of  them 
projecting  considerably,  with  uncouth  heads  and  grinning 
faces  carved  upon  them ;  and  upon  a  stone  above  the  door 
was  cut,  in  large  letters,  *  Spite  Hall.'  It  was  erected  by  a 
man  in  the  village,  opposite  to  the  house  of  his  enemy,  who 
had  just  finished  for  himself  a  good  house,  commanding  a 
beautiful  view  down  the  valley,  which  this  hideous  building 
^uite  shut  out." 

Fearless — because  this  people  were  quite  familiar  to  all 
of  them — amidst  such  a  population,  lived  and  walked  the 
gentle  Miss  Wooler's  eight  or  nine  pupils.  She  herself  was 
born  and  bred  among  this  rough,  strong,  fierce  set,  and  knew 
the  depth  of  goodness  and  loyalty  that  lay  beneath  their 


104  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

wild  manners  and  insubordinate  ways.  And  the  girls  talked 
of  the  little  world  around  them,  as  if  it  were  the  only  world 
that  was  ;  and  had  their  opinions  and  their  parties,  and  their 
fierce  discussions  like  their  elders — ^possibly,  their  betters. 
And  among  them,  beloved  and  respected  by  all,  laughed  at 
occasionally  by  a  few,  but  always  to  her  face — lived,  for  two 
jears,  the  plain,  short-sighted,  oddly-dressed,  studious  littlo 
girl  they  called  Charlotte  Bronte. 


LEAYIKG   SCHOOL.  105 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Miss  Bronte  left  Roe  Head  in  1832,  having  won  the  affeo 
tionate  regard  both  of  her  teacher  and  her  school- fellows, 
and  having  formed  there  the  two  fast  friendships  which  lasted 
her  whole  life  long ;  the  one  with  "  Mary,"  who  has  not  kept 
her  letters  ;  the  other  with  "  E."  who  has  kindly  entrusted 
me  with  as  much  of  her  correspondence  as  she  has  preserved. 
In  looking  over  the  earlier  portion,  I  am  struck  afresh  by 
the  absence  of  hope,  which  formed  such  a  strong  character- 
istic in  Charlotte.  At  an  age  when  girls,  in  general,  look 
forward  to  an  eternal  duration  of  such  feelings  as  they  or 
their  friends  entertain,  and  can  therefore  see  no  hindrance 
to  the  fulfilment  of  any  engagements  dependent  on  the  future 
state  of  the  affections,  she  is  surprised  that  E.  keeps  her 
promise  to  write.  In  after-life,  I  was  painfully  impressed 
with  the  fact,  that  Miss  Bronte  never  dared  to  allow  herself 
to  look  forward  with  hope ;  that  she  had  no  confidence  in  the 
future ;  and  I  thought,  when  I  heard  of  the  sorrowful  years 
she  had  passed  through,  that  it  had  been  this  pressure  of 
grief  which  had  crushed  all  buoyancy  of  expectation  out  of 
her.  But  it  appears  from  the  letters,  that  it  must  have 
been,  so  to  speak,  constitutional ;  or,  perhaps,  the  deep  pang 
of  losing  her  two  elder  sisters  combined  with  a  permanent 
state  of  bodily  weakness  in  producing  her  hopelessness.  If 
her  trust  in  Grod  had  been  less  strong,  she  would  have  given 
way  to  unbounded  anxiety,  at  many  a  period  of  her  life.  Ah 
5* 


106  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

it  was,  we  shall  see,  she  made  a  great  and  succesiful  eiibrt  to 
leave  "  her  times  in  His  hands." 

After  her  return  home,  she  employed  herself  in  teaching 
her  sisters,  over  whom  she  had  had  superior  advantages. 
She  writes  thus,  July  21st,  1832,  of  her  course  of  life  at  the 
parsonage  : — 

"  An  account  of  one  day  is  an  account  of  all.  In  tho 
morning,  from  nine  o'clock  till  half-past  twelve,  I  instruct 
my  sisters,  and  draw ;  then  we  walk  till  dinner-time.  After 
dinner  I  sew  till  tea-time,  and  after  tea  I  either  write,  read, 
or  do  a  little  fancy  work,  or  draw,  as  I  please.  Thus,  in  one 
delightful,  though  somewhat  monotonous  course,  my  life  is 
passed.  I  have  been  only  out  twice  to  tea  since  I  came 
home.  We  are  expecting  company  this  afternoon,  and  on 
Tuesday  next  we  shall  have  all  the  female  teachers  of  the 
Sunday-school  to  tea." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Mr.  Bronte  provided  his 
children  with  a  teacher  in  drawing,  who  turned  out  to  be  a 
man  of  considerable  talent,  but  very  little  principle.  Al- 
though they  never  attained  to  anything  like  proficiency,  they 
took  great  interest  in  acquiring  this  art ;  evidently,  from  an 
instinctive  desire  to  express  their  powerful  imaginations  in 
visible  forms.  Charlotte  told  me,  that,  at  this  period  of  her 
life,  drawing,  and  walking  out  with  her  sisters,  formed  the 
two  great  pleasures  and  relaxations  of  her  day. 

The  three  girls  used  to  walk  upwards  towards  the  "  purple- 
black  ' '  moors,  the  sweeping  surface  of  which  was  broken  by 
here  and  there  a  stone-quarry ;  and  if  they  had  strength  and 
time  to  go  far  enough,  they  reached  a  waterfall,  where  the 
beck  fell  over  some  rocks  into  the  "  bottom."  They  seldom 
went  downwards  through  the  village.  They  were  shy  of 
meeting  even  familiar  faces,  and  were  scrupulous  about  enter- 
ing the  house  of  the  very  poorest  uninvited.  They  were 
steady  teachers  at  the  Sunday-school,  a  habit  which  Char- 


FRENCH    CORRESPONDENCE.  107 

lotte  kept  up  very  faithfully,  even  after  she  was  left  alone ; 
but  they  never  faced  their  kind  voluntarily,  and  always  pre* 
ferred  the  solitude  and  freedom  of  the  moors. 

In  the  September  of  this  year,  Charlotte  went  to  pay  her 
first  visit  to  her  friend  E.  It  took  her  into  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Roe  Head,  and  brought  her  into  pleasant  contact 
with  many  cf  her  old  schoolfellows.  After  this  visit,  she 
and  her  friend  seem  to  have  agreed  to  correspond  in  French, 
for  the  sake  of  improvement  in  the  language.  But  this  im- 
provement could  not  be  great,  when  it  could  only  amount 
to  a  greater  familiarity  with  dictionary  words,  and  when 
there  was  no  one  to  explain  to  them  that  a  verbal  translation 
of  English  idioms  hardly  constituted  French  composition ; 
but  the  effort  was  laudable,  and  of  itself  shows  how  willing 
they  both  were  to  carry  on  the  education  which  they  had  be- 
gun under  Miss  Wooler.  I  will  give  an  extract  which,  what- 
ever may  be  thought  of  the  language,  is  graphic  enough,  and 
presents  us  with  a  happy  little  family  picture;  the  eldest 
sister  returning  home  to  the  two  younger,  after  a  fortnight's 
absence. 

"  J'arrivait  a  Haworth  en  parfaite  sauvete  sans  le  moin- 
dre  accident  ou  malheur.  Mes  petites  soeurs  couraient  hors 
de  la  maison  pour  me  rencontrer  aussitot  que  la  voiture  se  fit 
voir,  et  elles  m'cmbrassaient  avec  autant  d'empressement,  et 
de  plaisir,  comme  si  j 'avals  ete  absente  pour  plus  d'an.  Mon 
Papa,  ma  Tante,  et  le  monsieur  dont  mon  frere  avoit  parle, 
furent  tons  assembles  dans  le  Salon,  et  en  pen  de  temps  je 
in'y  rendis  aussi.  C'est  souvent  I'ordre  du  Ciel  que  quand  on 
a  perdu  un  plaisir  il  y  en  a  un  autre  pret  a  prendre  sa  place. 
Ainsi  je  venoit  de  partir  de  tres  chers  amis,  mais  tout  a 
I'heure  je  revins  a  des  parens  aussi  chers  et  bons  dans  le  mo- 
ment. Meme  que  vous  me  perdiez  (ose-je  croire  que  mon 
depart  vous  etait  un  chagrin  ?)  vous  attendites  Tarrivce  de 


108  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

votre  frere,  et  de  votre  soeur.  J'ai  donne  a  nies  soeurs  leh 
pommes  que  vous  leur  envoyiez  avec  tant  de  bont^ ;  ellea 
disent  qu'elles  sont  sur  que  Mademoiselle  E.  est  tres  aimable 
et  bonne  ;  I'une  et  I'autre  sont  extremement  impatientes  de 
vous  voir  ;  j'espere  qu'en  peu  de  mois  elles  auront  ce  plaisir." 

But  it  was  some  time  before  the  friends  could  meet,  and 
meanwhile  they  agreed  to  correspond  once  a  month.  There 
were  no  events  to  chronicle  in  the  Haworth  letters.  Quiet 
days,  occupied  in  teaching,  and  feminine  occupations  in  the 
house,  did  not  present  much  to  write  about ;  and  Charlotte 
was  naturally  driven  to  criticize  books. 

Of  these  there  were  many  in  different  plights,  and  ac- 
cording to  their  plight,  kept  in  different  places.  The  well 
bound  were  ranged  in  the  sanctuary  of  Mr.  Bronte's  study ; 
but  the  purchase  of  books  was  a  necessary  luxury  to  him, 
and  as  it  was  often  a  choice  between  binding  an  old  one,  or 
buying  a  new  one,  the  familiar  volume,  Avhich  had  been 
hungrily  read  by  all  the  members  of  the  family,  was  some- 
times in  such  a  condition  that  the  bed-room  shelf  was  con- 
sidered its  fitting  place.  Up  and  down  the  house,  were  to 
be  found  many  standard  works  of  a  solid  kind.  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  writings,  Wordsworth's  and  Southey's  poems  were 
among  the  lighter  literature ;  while,  as  having  a  character 
of  their  own — earnest,  wild,  and  occasionally  fanatical — may 
be  named  some  of  the  books  which  came  from  the  Branwell 
side  of  the  family — from  the  Cornish  followers  of  the  saintly 
John  Wesley — and  which  are  touched  on  in  the  account  of 
the  works  to  which  Caroline  Helstone  had  access  in  "  Shir- 
ley '' : — "  Some  venerable  Lady's  Magazines,  that  had  once 
performed  a  voyage  with  their  owner,  and  undergone  a 
storm  " — (possibly  part  of  the  relics  of  Mrs.  Bronte's  pos- 
sessions,  contained  in  the  ship  wrecked  on  the  coast  of  Corn- 
wall)— "  and  whose  pages  were  stained  with  salt  water ; 
Bome  mad  Methodist  Magazines  full  of  miracles  and  appari- 


HER    -REMARKS   ON    "  KENIL WORTH."  109 

tions,  and  preternatural  warnings,  ominous  dreams,  and 
frenzied  fanaticism;  and  the  equally  mad  Letters  of  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Rowe  from  the  Dead  to  the  Living." 

Mr.  Bronte  encouraged  a  taste  for  reading  in  his  girls  ; 
and  though  Miss  Branwell  kept  it  in  due  bounds,  by  the 
variety  of  household  occupations,  in  which  she  expected 
them  not  merely  to  take  a  part,  but  to  become  proficients, 
thereby  occupying  regularly  a  good  portion  of  every  day, 
they  were  allowed  to  get  books  from  the  circulating  library 
at  Keighley ;  and  many  a  happy  walk,  up  those  long  four 
miles  must  they  have  had  burdened  with  some  new  book  in- 
to which  they  peeped  as  they  hurried  home.  Not  that  the 
books  were  what  would  generally  be  called  new  ;  in  the  be- 
ginning of  1833,  the  two  friends  seem  almost  simultaneously 
to  have  fallen  upon  "  Kenilworth,"  and  Charlotte  writes  as 
follows  about  it : — 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  *  Kenil worth ;  '  it  is  certainly  more 
resembling  a  romance  than  a  novel :  in  my  opinion,  one  of 
the  most  interesting  works  that  ever  emanated  from  the 
great  Sir  Walter's  pen.  Varney  is  certainly  the  personifica- 
tion of  consummate  villany ;  and  in  the  delineation  of  his  dark 
and  profoundly  artful  mind,  Scott  exhibits  a  wonderful  know- 
ledge of  human  nature,  as  well  as  surprising  skill  in  embody- 
ing his  perceptions,  so  as  to  enable  others  to  become  participa- 
tors in  that  knowledge." 

Commonplace  as  this  extract  may  seem,  it  is  note-wortny 
on  two  or  three  accounts  :  in  the  first  place,  instead  of  dis- 
cussing the  plot  or  story,  she  analyzes  the  character  of  Var- 
ney ;  and  next,  she,  knowing  nothing  of  the  world,  both 
from  her  youth  and  her  isolated  position,  has  yet  been  so 
accustomed  to  hear  "  human  nature  "  distrusted,  as  to  receive 
the  notion  of  intense  and  artful  villany  without  surprise. 

What  was  formal  and  set  in  her  way  of  writing  to  E. 
diminished  as  their  personal  acquaintance  increased,  and  as 


110  LIFE    OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

eacli  came  to  know  the  home  of  the  other ;  so  that  small  de- 
tails concerning  people  and  places  had  their  interest  and 
their  significance.  In  the  summer  of  1833,  she  wrote  to  in- 
vite her  friend  to  come  and  pay  her  a  visit.  "  Aunt  thought 
it  would  be  better  ''  (she  says)  "  to  defer  it  until  about  the 
middle  of  summer,  as  the  winter,  and  even  the  spring  sea* 
eons,  are  remarkably  cold  and  bleak  among  our  mountains.'* 

The  first  impression  made  on  the  visitor  by  the  sisters  of 
her  school-friend  was,  that  Emily  was  a  tall,  long-armed  girl, 
more  fully  grown  than  her  elder  sister ;  extremely  reserved 
in  manner.  I  distinguish  reserve  from  shyness,  because  I 
imagine  shyness  would  please,  if  it  knew  how ;  whereas,  re- 
serve is  indifferent  whether  it  pleases  or  not.  Anne,  like  her 
eldest  sister,  was  shy ;  Emily  was  reserved. 

Branwell  was  rather  a  handsome  boy,  with  "  tawny  '' 
hair,  to  use  Miss  Bronte's  phrase  for, a  more  obnoxious 
colour.  All  were  very  clever,  original,  and  utterly  diff*erent 
to  any  people  or  family  E.  had  ever  seen  before.  But,  on 
the  whole,  it  was  a  happy  visit  to  all  parties.  Charlotte 
says,  in  writing  to  E.,  just  after  her  return  home — "  Were  I 
to  tell  you  of  the  impression  you  have  made  on  every  one 
here,  you  would  accuse  me  of  flattery.  Papa  and  aunt  are 
continually  adducing  you  as  an  example  for  me  to  shape  my 
actions  and  behavioui'  by.  Emily  and  Anne  say  ^  they  never 
saw  any  one  they  liked  so  well  as  you.'  And  Tabby,  whom 
you  have  absolutely  fascinated,  talks  a  great  deal  more  non- 
sense about  your  ladyship  than  I  care  to  repeat.  It  is  no-w 
so  dark  that,  notwithstanding  the  singular  property  of  seeing 
in  the  night-time,  which  the  young  ladies  at  Koe  Head  used 
to  attribute  to  me,  I  can  scribble  no  longer." 

To  a  visitor  at  the  parsonage,  it  was  a  great  thing  to 
hayc  Tabby's  good  word.  She  had  a  Yorkshire  keenness 
of  perception  into  character,  and  it  was  not  everybody  sho 
likttd. 


A   DEEARY    SEASON   AT   HAWOKTH.  Ill 

Haworth  is  built  with  an  utter  disregard  of  all  sauitary 
conditions :  the  great  old  churchyard  lies  above  all  the 
houses,  and  it  is  terrible  to  think  how  the  very  water-springs 
of  the  pumps  below  must  be  poisoned.  But  this  winter  of 
1833-4  was  particularly  wet  and  rainy,  and  there  were  an 
unusual  number  of  deaths  in  the  village.  A  dreary  season 
it  was  to  the  family  in  the  parsonage  :  their  usual  walks  ob- 
structed by  the  spongy  state  of  the  moors — the  passing  and 
funeral  bells  so  frequently  tolling,  and  filling  the  heavy  air 
with  their  mournful  sound — and,  when  they  were  still,  the 
"  chip,  chip  "  of  the  mason,  as  he  cut  the  grave-stones  in  a 
shed  close  by.  In  many,  living,  as  it  were,  in  a  church- 
yard— for  the  parsonage  is  surrounded  by  it  on  three  sides — 
and  with  all  the  sights  and  sounds  connected  with  the  last 
offices  to  the  dead  things  of  every-day  occurrence,  the  very 
familiarity  would  have  bred  indifierence.  But  it  was  other- 
wise with  Charlotte  Bronte.  One  of  her  friends  says  : — "  I 
have  seen  her  turn  pale  and  feel  faint  when,  in  Hartshead 
church,  some  one  accidentally  remarked  that  we  were  walk- 
ing over  graves." 

About  the  beginning  of  1834,  E.  went  to  London  for  the 
first  time.  The  idea  of  her  friend's  visit  seems  to  have 
stirred  Charlotte  strangely.  She  appears  to  have  formed 
her  notions  of  its  probable  consequences  from  some  of  the 
papers  in  the  "  British  Essayists,"  "  The  Rambler,"  "  The 
Mirror,"  or  "The  Lounger,"  which  may  have  been  among 
the  English  classics  on  the  parsonage  book-shelves ;  for  she 
evidently  imagines  that  an  entire  change  of  character  for  the 
worse  is  the  usual  effect  of  a  visit  to  "  the  great  metropolis," 
and  is  delighted  to  find  that  E.  is  E.  still.  And,  as  her 
faith  in  her  friend's  stability  is  restored,  her  own  imagination 
is  deeply  moved  by  the  ideas  of  what  great  wonders  are  to 
be  seen  in  that  vast  and  famous  city. 


112  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

''  Eaworth,  Fehruary  20thj  1834. 
*^  Your  letter  gave  me  real  and  heartfelt  pleasure, 
mingled  with  no  jBmall  share  of  astonishment.  Mary  had 
previously  informed  me  of  your  departure  for  London,  and  I 
had  not  ventured  to  calculate  on  any  communication  from 
you  while  surrounded  by  the  splendours  and  novelties  of  that 
great  city,  which  has  been  called  the  mercantile  metropolis 
of  Europe.  Judging  from  human  nature,  I  thought  that  a 
little  country  girl,  for  the  first  time  in  a  situation  so  well 
calculated  to  excite  curiosity,  and  to  distract  attention,  would 
lose  all  remembrance,  for  a  time  at  least,  of  distant  and 
familiar  objects,  and  give  herself  up  entirely  to  the  fascina- 
tion of  those  scenes  which  were  then  presented  to  her  view. 
Your  kind,  interesting,  and  most  welcome  epistle  showed 
me,  however,,  that  I  had  been  both  mistaken  and  unchari- 
table in  these  suppositions.  I  was  greatly  amused  at  the  tone 
of  nonchalance  which  you  assumed,  while  treating  of  London 
and  its  wonders.  Did  you  not  feel  awed  while  gazing  at  St 
Paul's  and  Westminster  Abbey  ?  Had  you  no  feeling  of 
intense  and  ardent  interest,  when  in  St.  James's  you  saw  the 
palace  where  so  many  of  England's  kings  have  held  their 
courts,  and  beheld  the  representations  of  their  persons  on  the 
walls  ?  You  should  not  be  too  much  afraid  of  appearing 
country-bred;  the  magnificence  of  London  has  drawn  ex- 
clamations of  astonishment  from  travelled  men,  experienced 
in  the  world,  its  wonders  and  beauti?s.  Have  you  yet  seen 
anything  of  the  great  personages  whom  the  sitting  of  Parlia- 
ment now  detains  in  London — the  Duke  of  Wellington,  Sii 
Robert  Peel,  Earl  Grey,  Mr.  Stanley,  Mr.  O'Connell  ?  If  I 
were  you,  I  would  not  be  too  anxious  to  spend  my  time  in 
reading  whilst  in  town.  Make  use  of  your  own  eyes  for  the 
purposes  of  observation  now,  and,  for  a  time  at  least,  lay 
aside  the  spectacles  with  which  authors  would  furnish  us." 

In  a  postgeript  she  adds  :■ — 


A   FIRST   VISIT    rO   LONDON.  113 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  inform  mc  of  the  numbei 
of  performers  in  the  King's  military  band  ?  " 

And  in  something  of  the  same  strain  she  writes  on 

^'tTune  19th. 
"  My  own  dear  E., 

I  may  rightfully  and  truly  call  you  so  now.  You 
have  returned  or  are  returnicg  from  London- — from  the 
great  city  which  is  to  mo  as  apocryphal  as  Babylon,  or 
Nineveh,  or  ancient  Rome.  You  are  withdrawing  from  the 
world  (as  it  is  called),  and  bringing  with  you — if  your  let- 
ters enable  me  to  form  a  correct  judgment — a  heart  as  un- 
sophisticated, as  natural,  as  true,  as  that  you  carried  there. 
I  am  slow,  very  slow,  to  believe  the  protestations  of  another  ; 
I  know  my  own  sentiments,  I  can  read  my  own  mind,  but 
the  minds  of  the  rest  of  man  and  woman  kind  are  to  me  sealed 
volumes,  hieroglyphical  scrolls,  which  I  cannot  easily  either 
unseal  or  decipher.  Yet  time,  careful  study,  long  acquaint- 
ance, overcome  most  difficulties ;  and,  in  your  case,  I  think 
they  have  succeeded  well  in  bringing  to  light  and  construing 
that  hidden  language,  whose  turnings,  windings,  inconsisten- 
cies, and  obscurities,  so  frequently  baffle  the  researches  of 
the  honest  observer  of  human  nature.  ...  I  am  truly 
grateful  for  your  mindfulness  of  so  obscure  a  person  as  my- 
self, and  I  hope  the  pleasure  is  not  altogether  selfish;  I 
trust  it  is  partly  derived  from  the  consciousness  that  my 
friend's  character  is  of  a  higher,  a  more  steadfast  order  than 
I  was  once  perfectly  aware  of.  Few  girls  would  have  don 
as  you  have  done- — would  have  beheld  the  glare,  and  glitter, 
and  dazzling  display  of  London  with  dispositions  so  unchan- 
ged, heart  so  uncontaminated.  I  see  no  affectation  in  your 
letters,  no  trifling,  no  frivolous  contempt  of  plain,  and  weak 
admiration  of  showy  persons  and  things." 


114  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BKONTE. 

In  these  days  of  cheap  railway  trips,  we  may  smile  at 
the  idea  of  a  short  visit  to  London  having  any  great  effect 
upon  the  character,  whatever  it  may  have  upon  the  intellect. 
But  her  London — her  great  apocryphal  city — was  the  ''  town  " 
of  a  century  before,  to  which  giddy  daughters  dragged  un- 
willing papas,  or  went  with  injudicious  friends,  to  the 
detriment  of  all  their  better  qualities,  and  sometimes  to  the 
ruin  of  their  fortunes  ;  it  was  the  Vanity  Fair  of  the  "  Pil- 
grim's Progress  "  to  her. 

But  see  the  just  and  admirable  sense  with  which  she 
can  treat  a  subject  of  which  she  is  able  to  overlook  all  the 
bearings. 

''  Haworth,  July  4th,  1834. 
"  In  your  last,  you  requested  me  to  tell  you  of  your 
faults.  Now,  really,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish !  I  ivonH 
tell  you  of  your  faults,  because  I  don't  know  them.  What 
a  creature  would  that  be,  who,  after  receiving  an  affectionate 
and  kind  letter  from  a  beloved  friend,  should  sit  down  and 
write  a  catalogue  of  defects  by  way  of  answer  !  Imagine 
me  doing  so,  and  then  consider  what  epithets  you  would  be- 
stow on  me.  Conceited,  dogmatical,  hypocritical,  little  hum- 
Dug,  I  should  think,  would  be  the  mildest.  Why,  child ! 
I've  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  reflect  on  your  faults 
when  you  are  so  far  from  me,  and  when,  besides,  kind  letter* 
and  presents,  and  so  forth,  are  continually  bringing  forth 
your  goodness  in  the  most  prominent  light.  Then,  too,  there 
are  judicious  relations  always  round  you,  who  can  much 
better  discharge  that  unpleasant  office.  I  have  no  doubt 
their  advice  is  completely  at  your  service ;  why  then  should  I 
intrude  mine  ?  If  you  will  not  hear  thenij  it  will  be  vaiti 
though  one  should  rise  from  the  dead  to  instruct  you.  Let 
ug  have  no  more  nonsense^  if  you  love  me.  Mr. is  go- 
ing to  be  married,  is  he  ?    Well,  his  wife  elect  appeared  to 


LETTER  ON  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS.  115 

me  to  be  a  clever  and  amiable  lady,  as  far  as  I  could  judgQ 
from  the  little  I  saw  of  her,  and  from  your  account.  Now  to 
that  flattering  sentence  must  I  tack  on  a  list  of  her  faults  ? 

You  say  it  is  in  contemplation  for  you  to  leave .     I  am 

sorry  for  it.     is  a  pleasant  spot,  one  of  the  old  family 

halls  of  England,  surrounded  by  lawn  and  woodland,  speak- 
ing of  past  times,  and  suggesting  (to  me  at  least)  happy  feel- 
ings. M.  thought  you  grown  less,  did  she  ?  I  am  not 
grown  a  bit,  but  as  short  and  dumpy  as  ever.  You  ask  me 
to  recommend  you  some  books  for  your  perusal.  I  will  do 
so  in  as  few  words  as  I  can.  If  you  like  poetry,  let  it  be 
first-rate  ;  Milton,  Shakspeare,  Thomson,  Goldsmith,  Pope 
(if  you  will,  though  I  don't  admire  him),  Scott,  Byron, 
Campbell,  Wordsworth,  and  Southey.  Now  don't  be  startled 
at  the  names  of  Shakspeare  and  Byron.  Both  these  were 
great  men,  and  their  works  are  like  themselves.  You  will 
know  how  to  choose  the  good,  and  to  avoid  the  evil ;  the 
finest  passages  are  always  the  purest,  the  bad  are  invariably 
revolting ;  you  will  never  wish  to  read  them  over  twice. 
Omit  the  comedies  of  Shakspeare  and  the  Don  Juan^  per- 
haps the  Cain,  of  Byron,  though  the  latter  is  a  magnificent 
poem,  and  read  the  rest  fearlessly ;  that  must  indeed  be  a 
depraved  mind  which  can  gather  evil  from  Henry  VIII., 
from  Richard  III.,  from  Macbeth,  and  Hamlet,  and  Julius 
Caesar.  Scott's  sweet,  wild,  romantic  poetry  can  do  you  no 
harm.  Nor  can  Wordsworth's,  nor  Campbell's,  nor  Southey's 
— the  greatest  part  at  least  of  his  ;  some  is  certainly  objec- 
tionable. For  history,  read  Hume,  RoUin,  and  the  Uni- 
versal History,  if  you  can  ;  I  never  did.  For  fiction,  read 
Scott  alone ;  all  novels  after  his  are  worthless  For  biog- 
raphy, read  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets,  Boswell's  Life  of 
Johnson,  Southey's  Life  of  Nelson,  Lockhart's  Life  of  Burns, 
Moore's  Life  of  Sheridan,  Moore's  Life  of  Byron,  Wolf's 
Remains.     For  natural  history,  read  Bewick  and  Audubon, 


lie  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

and  Goldsmith^  and  White's  History  of  Selborne.  Foi 
divinity,  your  brother  will  advise  you  there.  I  can  only 
say,  adhere  to  standard  authors,  and  avoid  novelty." 

From  this  list,  we  see  that  she  must  have  had  a  good 
range  of  books  from  which  to  choose  her  own  reading. 
It  is  evident,  that  the  womanly  consciences  of  these  two  cor- 
respondents were  anxiously  alive  to  many  questions  discussed 
among  the  stricter  religionists.  The  morality  of  Shakspeare 
needed  the  confirmation  of  Charlotte's  opinion  to  the  sensi- 
tive E. ;  and  a  little  later,  she  inquired  whether  dancing 
was  objectionable,  when  indulged  in  for  an  hour  or  two  in 
parties  of  boys  and  girls.       Charlotte  replies,    "  I  should 

hesitate  to  express  a  difference  of  opinion  from  Mr.  , 

or  from  your  excellent  sister,  but  really  the  matter  seems  to 
me  to  stand  thus.  It  is  allowed  on  all  hands,  that  the  sin 
of  dancing  consists  not  in  the  mere  action  of  "  shaking  the 
shanks "  (as  the  Scotch  say),  but  in  the  consequences  that 
usually  attend  it ;  namely,  frivolity  and  waste  of  time ;  when 
it  is  used  only,  as  in  the  case  you  state,  for  the  exercise  and 
amusement  of  an  hour  among  young  people  (who  surely  may 
without  any  breach  of  Grod's  commandments  be  allowed  a 
little  light-heartedness),  these  consequences  cannot  follow. 
Ergo  (according  to  my  manner  of  arguing),  the  amusement 
is  at  such  times  perfectly  innocent." 

Although  the  distance  between    Haworth    and  B 

was  but  seventeen  miles,  it  was  difficult  to  go  straight  from 
the  one  to  the  other  without  hiring  a  gig  or  vehicle  of  some 
kind  for  the  journey.  Hence  a  visit  from  Charlotte  required 
a  good  deal  of  pre-arrangement.  The  Haworth  gig  was  not 
always  to  be  had ;  and  Mr.  Bronte  was  often  unwilling  to 
fall  into  any  arrangement  for  meeting  at  Bradford  or  other 
places,  which  would  occasion  trouble  to  others.  They  had 
&11  an  ample  share  of  that  sensitive  pride  which  led  them  to 
dread  incurring  obligations,  and  to  fear  *^  outstayinp^  their 


CHARACTEE   OF   BKANWELL   BEONTE.  117 

welcome  "  when  on  any  visit.  I  am  not  sure  whether  Mr. 
Bronto  did  not  consider  distrust  of  others  as  a  part  of  that 
knowledge  pf  human  nature  on  which  he  piqued  himself. 
His  precepts  to  this  effect,  combined  with  Charlotte's  lack 
of  hope,  made  her  always  fearful  of  loving  too  much*;  of 
wearying  the  objects  of  her  affection;  and  thus  she  was  often 
trying  to  restrain  her  warm  feelings,  and  was  ever  chary  of 
that  presence  so  invariably  welcome  to  her  true  friends. 
According  to  this  mode  of  acting,  when  she  was  invited 
for  a  month,  she  stayed  but  a  fortnight  amidst  E.'s  family, 
to  whom  every  visit  only  endeared  her  the  more,  and  by 
whom  she  was  received  with  that  kind  of  quiet  gladness 
with  which  they  would  have  greeted  a  sister. 

She  still  kept  up  her  childish  interest  in  politics.  In 
March,  1835,  she  writes  :  "  What  do  you  think  of  the  course 
politics  are  taking?  I  make  this  inquiry,  because  I  now 
think  you  take  a  wholesome  interest  in  the  matter;  for- 
merly you  did  not  care  greatly  about  it.  B.,  you  see,  is 
triumphant.  Wretch  !  I  am  a  hearty  hater,  and  if  there  is 
any  one  I  thoroughly  abhor,  it  is  that  man.  But  the  Op- 
position is  divided,  Red-hots,  and  Luke-warms;  and  the 
Duke  (par-excellence  the  Duke,)  and  Sir  Robert  Peel  show 
no  signs  of  insecurity,  though  they  have  been  twice  beat ; 
so  *  Courage,  mon  amie,'  as  the  old  chevaliers  used  to  say, 
before  they  joined  battle." 

In  the  middlf  of  the  summer  of  1835,  a  great  family 
plan  was  mooted  at  the  parsonage.  The  question  was,  to 
what  trade  or  profession  should  Branwell  be  brought  up  ? 
He  was  now  nearly  eighteen  ;  it  was  time  to  decide.  He 
was  very  clever,  no  doubt;  perhaps,  to  begin  with,  the 
greatest  genius  in  this  rare  family.  The  sisters  hardly  re- 
cognised their  own,  or  each  other's  powers,  but  they  knew 
his.  The  father,  ignorant  of  many  failings  in  moral  con- 
duct, did  proud  homage  to  the  great  gifts  of  his  son ;  for 


118  LIFE    OF   CIIxVRLOTTE   BKONT35. 

Branwell's  talents  were  readily  and  willingly  brouglit  out 
for  the  entertainment  of  others.  Popular  admiration  was 
sweet  to  him.  And  this  led  to  his  presence  being  sought  at 
"  arvills"  and  all  the  great  village  gather ings^  for  the  York- 
shire men  have  a  keen  relish  for  intellect ;  and  it  likewise 
procured  him  the  undesirable  distinction  of  having  his  com- 
pany recommended  by  the  landlord  of  the  Black  Bull  to 
any  chance  traveller  who  might  happen  to  feel  solitary  or 
dull  over  his  liquor.  "  Do  you  want  some  one  to  help  you 
with  your  bottle,  sir  ?  If  you  do,  I'll  send  up  for  Patrick  " 
(so  the  villagers  called  him  till  the  day  of  his  death).  And 
while  the  messenger  went,  the  landlord  entertained  his  guests 
with  accounts  of  the  wonderful  talents  of  the  boy,  whose 
precocious  clererness,  and  great  conversational  powers,  were 
the  pride  of  the  village.  The  attacks  of  ill  health  to  which 
Mr.  Bronte  had  been  subject  of  late  years,  rendered  it  not 
only  necessary  that  he  should  take  his  dinner  alone  (for  the 
sake  of  avoiding  temptations  to  unwholesome  diet),  but 
made  it  also  desirable  that  he  should  pass  the  time  directly 
succeeding  his  meals  in  perfect  quiet.  And  this  necessity, 
combined  with  due  attention  to  his  parochial  duties,  made 
him  partially  ignorant  how  his  son  employed  himself  out  of 
lesson-time.  His  own  youth  had  been  spent  among  people 
of  the  same  conventional  rank  as  those  into  whose  companion- 
ship Branwell  was  now  thrown ;  but  he  had  had  a  strong 
will,  and  an  earnest  and  persevering  ambition,  and  a  reso- 
luteness of  purpose  which  his  weaker  son  wanted. 

It  is  singular  how  strong  a  yearning  the  whole  family 
had  towards  the  art  of  drawing.  Mr.  Bronte  had  been  very 
solicitous  to  get  them  good  instruction;  the  girls  themselves 
loved  every  thing  connected  with  it — all  descriptions  or 
engravings  of  great  pictures ;  and,  in  default  of  good  ones, 
they  would  take  and  analyse  any  print  or  drawing  which 
€ame  in  their  way,  and  find  out  how  much  thought  had  gone 


11& 

t6  its  composition,  what  ideas  it  was  intended  to  suggest, 
and  what  it  did  suggest.  In  the  same  spirit,  they  laboured 
to  design  imaginations  of  their  own ;  they  lacked  the  power 
of  execution,  not  of  conception.  At  one  time,  Charlotte  had 
the  notion  of  making  her  living  as  an  artist,  and  wearied  her 
eyes  in  drawing  with  pre-Raphaelite  minuteness,  but  no 
with  pre-Eaphaelite  accuracy,  for  she  drew  from  fancy  rathe 
than  from  nature. 

But  they  all  thought  there  could  be  no  doubt  about 
Branwell's  talent  for  drawing.  I  have  seen  an  oil  painting 
of  his,  done  I  know  not  when,  but  probably  about  this  time. 
It  was  a  group  of  his  sisters,  life  size,  three-quarters'  length ; 
not  much  better  than  sign-painting,  as  to  manipulation ;  but 
the  likenesses  were,  I  should  think,  admirable.  I  could  only 
judge  of  the  fidelity  with  which  the  other  two  were  depicted, 
from  the  striking  resemblance  which  Charlotte,  upholding 
the  great  frame  of  canvas,  and  consequently  standing  right 
behind  it,  bore  to  her  own  representation,  though  it  must 
have  been  ten  years  and  more  since  the  portraits  were  taken. 
The  picture  was  divided,  almost  in  the  middle,  by  a  great 
pillar.  On  the  side  of  the  column  which  was  lighted  by  the 
sun,  stood  Charlotte,  in  the  womanly  dress  of  that  day  of 
jigot  sleeves  and  large  collars.  On  the  deeply  shadowed 
side,  was  Emily,  with  Anne's  gentle  face  resting  on  her 
shoulder.  Emily's  countenance  struck  me  as  full  of  power; 
Charlotte's  of  solicitude ;  Anne's  of  tenderness.  The  two 
younger  seemed  hardly  to  have  £.ttained  their  full  growth, 
though  Emily  was  taller  than  Charlotte  ;  they  had  cropped 
hair,  and  a  more  girlish  dress.  I  remember  looking  on 
those  two  sad,  earnest,  shadowed  faces,  and  wondering  whether 
I  could  trace  the  mysterious  expression  which  is  said  to  fore- 
tell  an  early  death.  I  had  some  fond  superstitious  hope  that 
the  column  divided  their  fates  from  hers,  who  stood  apart  in 
the  canvas,  as  in  life  she  survived      I  liked  to  see  that  tho 


120  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

bright  side  of  the  pillar  was  towards  her — that  the  light  in 
the  picture  fell  on  her  :  I  might  more  truly  have  sought  in 
her  presentment — ^nay,  in  her  living  face — for  the  sign  of 
death  in  her  prime.  They  were  good  likenesses,  however 
badly  executed.  From  thence  I  should  guess  his  family  au- 
gured truly  that,  if  Branwell  had  but  the  opportunity,  and, 
alas  !  had  but  the  moral  qualities,  he  might  turn  out  a  great 
painter. 

The  best  way  of  preparing  him  to  become  so  appeared 
to  be  to  send  him  as  a  pupil  to  the  E-oyal  Academy.  I  dare 
say,  he  longed  and  yearned  to  follow  this  path,  principally 
because  it  would  lead  him  to  that  mysterious  London — that 
Babylon  the  great — which  seems  to  have  filled  the  imagina- 
tions and  haunted  the  minds  of  all  the  younger  members  of 
this  recluse  family.  To  Branwell  it  was  more  than  a  vivid 
imagination,  it  was  an  impressed  reality.  By  dint  of  study- 
ing maps,  he  was  as  well  acquainted  with  it,  even  down  to 
its  by-ways,  as  if  he  had  lived  there.  Poor  misguided  fel- 
low !  this  craving  to  see  and  know  London,  and  that  strong- 
er craving  after  fame,  were  never  to  be  satisfied.  He  was 
to  die  at  the  end  of  a  short  and  blighted  life.  But  in  this 
year  of  1835,  all  his  home  kindred  were  thinking  how  they 
could  best  forward  his  views,  and  how  help  him  up  to  the 
pinnacle  where  he  desired  to  be.  What  their  plans  were, 
let  Charlotte  explain.  These  are  not  the  first  sisters  who 
have  laid  their  lives  as  a  sacrifice  before  their  brother's  idol- 
ized wish.  Would  to  God  they  might  be  the  last  who  met 
with  such  a  miserable  return  ! 

"  Haworih,  July  6th,  1835. 
"  I  had  hoped  to  have  had  the  extreme  pleasure  of  see- 
ing you  at  Haworth  this  summer,  but  human  afi*airs  are  mu- 
table, and  human  resolutions  must  bend  to  the   course  of 
events.     We  are  all  about  to  divide,  break  up,  separate 


PROSPECT    OF   SEPAEATION.  121 

Emily  is  going  to  school,  Branwell  is  going  to  London,  and 
I  am  going  to  be  a  governess.  This  last  determination  I 
formed  myself,  knowing  that  I  should  have  to  take  the  step 
sometime,  ^  and  better  sune  as  syne,'  to  use  the  Scotch  prov- 
erb ;  and  knowing  well  that  papa  would  have  enough  to  do 
with  his  limited  income,  should  Branwell  be  placed  at  the 
lloyal  Academy,  and  Emily  at  E-oe  Head.  Where  am  I 
going  to  reside  ?  you  will  ask.  Within  four  miles  of  you,  at 
a  place  neither  of  us  are  unacquainted  with,  being  no  other 
than  the  identical  Roe  Head  mentioned  above.  Yes  !  I  am 
going  to  teach  in  the  very  school  where  I  was  myself  taught. 
Miss  Wooler  made  me  the  offer,  and  I  preferred  it  to  one  or 
two  proposals  of  private  governess-ship,  which  I  had  before 
received.  I  am  sad — ^very  sad — at  the  thoughts  of  leaving 
home ;  but  duty — necessity — these  are  stern  mistresses,  who 
will  not  be  disobeyed.  Did  I  not  once  say  you  ought  to  be 
thankful  for  your  independence  ?  I  felt  what  I  said  at  the 
lime,  and  I  repeat  it  now  with  double  earnestness  ;  if  any- 
thing would  cheer  me,  it  is  the  idea  of  being  so  near  you. 
Surely,  you  and  Polly  will  come  and  see  me  ;  it  would  be 
wrong  in  me  to  doubt  it ;  you  were  never  unkind  yet.  Em- 
ily and  I  leave  home  on  the  27th  of  this  month ;  the  idea  of 
being  together  consoles  us  both  somewhat,  and,  truth,  since 
I  must  enter  a  situation,  ^  My  lines  have  fallen  in  pleasant 
places.'     I  both  love  and  respect  Miss  Wooler." 

VOL.    I. — G 


122  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BKONTE 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

On  tlie  29 th  of  July,  1835,  Charlotte,  now  little  more  than 
nineteen  years  old,  went  as  teacher  to  Miss  Wooler's.  Em» 
ily  accompanied  her,  as  a  pupil ;  but  she  became  literally  ill 
from  home-sickness,  and  could  not  settle  to  anything,  and 
after  passing  only  three  months  at  Roe  Head,  returned  to 
the  parsonage  and  the  beloved  moors. 

Miss  Bronte  gives  the  following  reasons  as  those  which 
prevented  Emily's  remaining  at  school,  and  caused  the  sub- 
stitution of  her  younger  sister  in  her  place  at  Miss  Wool- 
er's : — 

"  My  sister  Emily  loved  the  moors.  Flowers  brighter 
than  the  rose  bloomed  in  the  blackest  of  the  heath  for  her; 
— out  of  a  sullen  hollow  in  a  livid  hill-side,  her  mind  could 
make  an  Eden.  She  found  in  the  bleak  solitude  many  and 
dear  delights ;  and  not  the  least  and  best-loved  was — ^liberty. 
Liberty  was  the  breath  of  Emily's  nostrils  ;  without  it  she 
perished.  The  change  from  her  own  home  to  a  school,  and 
from  her  own  very  noiseless,  very  secluded,  but  unrestricted 
and  unartificial  mode  of  life,  to  one  of  disciplined  routine 
though  under  the  kindest  auspices),  was  what  she  failed  in 
enduring.  Her  nature  proved  here  too  strong  for  her  forti- 
tude. Every  morning,  when  she  woke,  the  vision  of  home 
and  the  moors  rushed  on  her,  and  darkened  and  saddened 
the  day  that  lay  before  her.  Nobody  knew  what  ailed  her 
but  me.     I  knew  only  too  well.     In  this  struggle  her  health 


HER   LIFE   AT   MISS   WOOLER'S.  123 

was  quickly  broken :  her  white  face,  attenuated  form,  and 
failing  strength,  threatened  rapid  decline,  I  felt  in  my 
heart  she  would  die,  if  she  did  not  go  home,  and  with  this 
conviction  obtained  her  recall.  She  had  only  been  three 
months  at  school ;  and  it  was  some  years  before  the  experi- 
ment of  sending  her  from  home  was  again  ventured  on." 

This  physical  suffering  on  Emily's  part  when  absent  from 
llaworth,  after  recurring  several  times  under  similar  circum^ 
stances,  became  at  length  so  much  an  acknowledged  fact, 
that  whichever  was  obliged  to  leave  home,  the  sisters  deci- 
ded that  Emily  must  remain  there,  where  alone  she  could 
enjoy  anything  like  good  health.  She  left  it  twice  again  in 
her  life ;  once  going  as  teacher  to  a  school  in  Halifax  for  six 
months,  and  afterwards  accompanying  Charlotte  to  Brussels 
for  ten.  When  at  home,  she  took  the  principal  part  of  the 
cooking  upon  herself,  and  did  all  the  household  ironing ;  and 
after  Tabby  grew  old  and  infirm,  it  was  Emily  who  made  all 
the  bread  for  the  family ;  and  any  one  passing  by  the  kitch- 
en-door, might  have  seen  her  studying  German  out  of  an 
open  book,  propped  up  before  her,  as  she  kneaded  the  dough ; 
but  no  study,  however  interesting,  interfered  with  the  good- 
ness of  the  bread,  which  was  always  light  and  excellent. 
Books  were,  indeed,  a  very  common  sight  in  that  kitchen ; 
the  girls  were  taught  by  their  father  theoretically,  and  by 
their  aunt  practically,  that  to  take  an  active  part  in  all  house- 
hold work  was,  in  their  position,  woman's  simple  duty ;  but, 
in  their  careful  employment  of  time,  they  found  many  an 
odd  five  minutes  for  reading  while  watching  the  cakes,  and 
managed  the  union  of  two  kinds  of  employment  better  than 
King  Alfred. 

Charlotte's  life  at  Miss  Wooler's  was  a  very  happy  one, 
until  her  health  failed.  She  sincerely  loved  and  respected 
the  former  schoolmistress,  to  whom  she  was  now  become  both 
companion  and  friend.     The  girls  were  hardly  strangers  to 


124  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

her,  some  of  them  being  younger  sisters  of  those  who  had 
been  her  own  playmates.  Though  the  duties  of  the  day  might 
be  tedious  and  monotonous,  there  were  always  two  or  three 
happy  hours  to  look  forward  to  in  the  evening,  when  she  and 
Miss  Wooler  sat  together — sometimes  late  into  the  night — 
and  had  quiet  pleasant  conversations,  or  pauses  of  silence  as 
agreeable,  because  each  felt  that  as  soon  as  a  thought  or  re- 
mark occurred  which  they  wished  to  express,  there  was  an 
intelligent  companion  ready  to  sympathise,  and  yet  they  were 
not  compelled  to  "  make  talk." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  an  event  happened  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Leeds,  which  excited  a  good  deal  of  interest. 
A  young  lady,  who  held  the  situation  of  governess  in  a  very 
respectable  family,  had  been  wooed  and  married  by  a  gentle- 
man, holding  some  subordinate  position  in  the  commercial 
firm  to  which  the  young  lady's  employer  belonged.  A  year 
after  her  marriage,  during  which  time  she  had  given  birth 
to  a  child,  it  was  discovered  that  he  whom  she  called  husband 
had  another  wife.  Keport  now  says,  that  this  first  wife  was 
deranged,  and  that  he  had  made  this  an  excuse  to  himself  for 
his  subsequent  marriage.  But,  at  any  rate,  the  condition  of 
the  wife  who  was  no  wife — of  the  innocent  mother  of  the 
illegitimate  child  — excited  the  deepest  commiseration  ;  and 
the  case  was  spoken  of  far  and  wide,  and  at  Roe  Head  among 
other  places  > 

Miss  Wooler  was  always  anxious  to  afford  Miss  Bronte 
every  opportunity  of  recreation  in  her  power  ;  but  the  diffi- 
culty often  was  to  persuade  her  to  avail  herself  of  the  invita- 
tions which  came,  urging  her  to  spend  Saturday  and  Sunday 
with  E.  and  Mary,  in  their  respective  homes,  that  lay  within 
the  distance  of  a  walk.  But  Miss  Bronte  was  too  apt  to  con- 
sider that  allowing  herself  a  holiday  was  a  dereliction  of 
duty,  and  to  refuse  herself  the  necessary  change  from  some- 
thing <)f  :^n  over-ascetic  spirit,  betokening  a  loss  of  healthy 


NERVOUS    TEEEORS.  jl25 

balance  in  either  body  or  mind.  Indeed,  it  is  clear  tliat  such 
was  the  case,  from  an  extract  referring  to  this  time,  taken 
out  of  the  letter  I  have  before  referred  to,  from  "  Mary." 

"  Three  years  after" — (the  period  when  they  were  at  school 
together) — '*  I  heard  that  she  had  gone  as  teacher  to  Miss 
Wooler's.  I  went  to  see  her,  and  asked  how  she  could  give 
so  much  for  so  little  money,  when  she  could  live  without  it. 
She  owned  that,  after  clothing  herself  and  Anne,  there  was 
nothing  left,  though  she  had  hoped  to  be  able  to  save  some- 
thing. She  confessed  it  was  not  brilliant,  but  what  could 
she  do  ?  I  had  nothing  to  answer.  She  seemed  to  have  no 
interest  or  pleasure  beyond  the  feeling  of  duty,  and,  when 
she  could  get,  used  to  sit  alone,  and  '  make  out.'  She  told 
me  afterwards,  that  one  evening  she  had  sat  in  the  dressing- 
room  until  it  was  quite  dark,  and  then  observing  it  all  at 
once,  had  taken  sudden  fright."  No  doubt  she  remembered 
this  well  when  she  described  a  similar  terror  getting  hold 
upon  Jane  Eyre.  She  says  in  the  story,  "  I  sat  looking  at 
the  white  bed  and  overshadowed  walls — occasionally  turning 
a  fascinated  eye  towards  the  gleaming  mirror — I  began  to 
recall  what  I  had  heard  of  dead  men  troubled  in  their  graves. 

I  endeavored  to  be  firm  ;  shaking  my  hair  from 

my  eyes,  I  lifted  my  head  and  tried  to  look  boldly  through 
the  dark  room  ;  at  this  moment,  a  ray  from  the  moon  pene- 
trated some  aperture  in  the  blind.     No  !  moonlight  was  still, 

and   this   stirred prepared  as   my  mind  was  for 

horror,  shaken  as  my  nerves  were  by  agitation,  I  thought  the 

swift-darting  beam  was  a  herald  of  some  coming  vision  from 

nother  world.     My  heart  beat  thick,  my  head  grew  hot ;  a 

ound  filled  my  ears  which  I  deemed  the  rustling  of  wings  ; 

something  seemed  near  me."  * 

**  From  that  time,"  Mary  adds,  "  her  imaginations  be- 
came gloomy  or  frightful ;    she  could  not  help  it,  nor  help 

*  '*  Jane  Eji-e,"  Vol  I.,  page  20." 


126  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BRONTE. 

thinking.     She  could  not  forget  the  gloom,  could  not  sleep 
at  night,  nor  attend  in  the  day." 

Of  course  the  state  of  health  thus  described  came  on  gra- 
dually,  and  is  not  to  be  taken  as  a  picture  of  her  condition  in 
1836.  Yet  even  then  there  is  a  despondency  in  some  of  her 
expressions,  that  too  sadly  reminds  one  of  some  of  Cowper's 
letters.  And  it  is  remarkable  how  deeply  his  poems  im- 
pressed her.  His  words,  his  verses,  came  nrore  frequently  to 
her  memory,  I  imagine,  than  those  of  any  ether  poet. 

"  May  10th,  1836. 

"  I  was  struck  with  the  note  you  sent  me  with  the  um- 
brella ;  it  showed  a  degree  of  interest  in  my  concerns  which 
I  have  no  right  to  expect  from  any  earthly  creature.  I 
won't  play  the  hypocrite ;  I  won't  answer  your  kind,  gentle, 
friendly  questions  in  the  way  you  wish  me  to.  Don't  deceive 
yourself  by  imagining  I  have  a  bit  of  real  goodness  about  me. 
My  darling,  if  I  were  like  you,  I  should  have  my  face  Z  ion- 
ward,  though  prejudice  and  error  might  occasionally  fling  a 
mist  over  the  glorious  vision  before  me — but  I  am  not  like 
you.  If  you  knew  my  thoughts,  the  dreams  that  absorb  me, 
and  the  fiery  imagination  that  at  times  eats  me  up,  and  makes 
me  feel  society,  as  it  is,  wretchedly  insipid,  you  would  pity 
and  I  dare  say  despise  me.  But  I  know  the  treasures  of  th^ 
Bible ;  I  love  and  adore  them.  I  can  see  the  Well  of  Life 
in  all  its  clearness  and  brightness  ;,  but  when  I  stoop  down 
to  drink  of  the  puro  waters  they  fly  from  my  lips  as  if  I  were 
Tantalus. 

"  You  are  far  too  kind  and  frequent  in  your  invitations. 
You  puzzle  me.  I  hardly  know  how  to  refuse,  and  it  is  still 
more  embarrassing  to  accept.  At  any  rate,  I  cannot  come 
this  week,  for  we  are  in  the  very  thickest  melee  of  the  Repe- 
titions. I  was  hearing  the  terrible  fifth  section  when  your 
note  arrived.     But  Miss  Wooler  says  I  must  go  to  IMary 


TKACES    OF   DESPONDENCY.  127 

next  Friday,  as  she  promised  for  me  on  Whit-Sunday ;  and 
on  Sunday  morning  I  will  join  you  at  church,  if  it  be  conve- 
nient, and  stay  till  Monday.  There's  a  free  and  easy  pro- 
posal !  Miss  Wooler  has  driven  me  to  it.  She  says  her 
character  is  implicated." 

Good,  kind  Miss  Wooler  !  however  monotonous  and  trr 
ing  were  the  duties  Charlotte  had  to  perform  under  her  roof, 
there  was  always  a  genial  and  thoughtful  friend  watching 
over  her,  and  urging  her  to  partake  of  any  little  piece  of 
innocent  recreation  that  might  come  in  her  way.  And  in 
those  Midsummer  holidays  of  1836,  her  friend  E.  came 
to  stay  with  her  at  Haworth,  so  there  was  one  happy  time 
secured. 

Here  follows  a  series  of  letters,  not  dated,  but  belonging 
to  the  latter  portion  of  this  year ;  and  again  we  think  of  the 
gentle  and  melancholy  Cowper. 

"  My  dear  dear  E., 

I  am  at  this  moment  trembling  all  over  with  ex- 
citement, aftejr  reading  your  note ;  it  is  what  I  never  received 
before — it  is  the  unrestrained  pouring  out  of  a  warm,  gentle, 

generous  heart I  thank  you  with  energy  for  this 

kindness.  I  will  no  longer  shrink  from  answering  your 
questions.'  I  do  wish  to  be  better  than  I  am.  I  pray 
fervently  sometimes  to  be  made  so.  I  have  stings  of  con- 
science, visitings  of  remorse,  glimpses  of  holy,  of  inexpressible 
things,  which  formerly  I  used  to  be  a  stranger  to ;  it  may  all 
die  away,  and  I  may  be  in  utter  midnight,  but  I  implora 
a  merciful  Redeemer,  that,  if  this  be  the  dawn  of  the  gospel 
it  may  still  brighten  to  perfect  day.  Do  not  mistake  me — ■ 
do  not  think  I  am  good ;  I  only  wish  to  be  so.  I  only  hate 
my  former  flippancy  and  forwardness.  Oh  !  I  am  no  better 
than  ever  I  was.     I  am  in  that  state  of  horrid,  2;loomy  un- 


128  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

certainty  that,  at  this  moment,  I  would  submit  to  be  old 
grey-haired,  to  have  passed  all  my  youthful  days  of  enjoy- 
ment, and  to  be  settling  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  if  I  could 
only  thereby  ensure  the  prospect  of  reconciliation  to  God, 
and  redemption  through  his  Son's  merits.  I  never  was 
exactly  careless  of  these  matters,  but  I  have  always  taken  a 
clouded  and  repulsive  view  of  them ;  and  now,  if  possible^ 
the  clouds  are  gathering  darker,  and  a  more  oppressive  de- 
spondency weighs  on  my  spirits.  You  have  cheered  me,  my 
darling ;  for  one  moment,  for  an  atom  of  time,  I  thought  I 
might  call  you  my  own  sister  in  the  spirit ;  but  the  excite- 
ment is  past,  and  I  am  now  as  wretched  and  hopeless  as 
ever.  This  very  night  I  will  pray  as  you  wish  me.  May 
the  Almighty  hear  me  compassionately  !  and  I  humbly  hope 
he  will,  for  you  will  strengthen  my  polluted  petitions  with 
your  own  pure  requests.  All  is  bustle  and  confusion  round 
me,  the  ladies  pressing  with  their  sums  and  their  lessons. 
....  If  you  love  me,  do^  do,  do  come  on  Friday  :  I  shall 
watch  and  wait  for  you,  and  if  you  disappoint  me  I  shall 
weep.  I  wish  you  could  know  the  thrill  of  delight  which  I 
experienced,  when,  as  I  stood  at  the  dining-room  window, 

I  saw ,  as  he  whirled  past,  toss  your  little  packet  over 

the  wall." 

Huddersfield  market-day  was  still  the  great  period  for 
events  at  Eoe  Head.  Then  girls,  running  round  the  corner 
of  the  house  and  peeping  between  tree-stems,  and  up  a 
shadowy  lane,  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  father  or  brother 
driving  to  market  in  his  gig ;  might,  perhaps,  exchange  a 
wave  of  the  hand ;  or  see,  as  Charlotte  Bronte  did  from  the 
window  forbidden  to  pupils,  a  white  packet  tossed  over  the 
wall,  by  some  swift  strong  motion  of  an  arm,  the  rest  of  the 
traveller's  body  unseen. 

^*  Weary  with  a  day's  hard  work I  am  sitting 

down  to  write  a  few  lines  to  my  dear   E.     Excuse  me  if  T 


MELAKCHOLr   MOODS.  12G 

say  nothing  Ibut  nonsense,  for  my  mind  is  exhausted  and 
dispirited.  It  is  a  stormy  evening,  and  the  wind  is  uttering 
a  continual  moaning  sound,  that  makes  me  feel  very  melan- 
choly. At  such  times — in  such  moods  as  these — it  is  my 
nature  to  seek  repose  in  some  calm  tranquil  idea,  and  I  have 
now  summoned  up  your  image  to  give  me  rest.  There  you 
sit,  upright  and  still,  in  your  black  dress,  and  white  scarf, 
and  pale  marble-like  face — just  like  reality.  I  wish  you 
would  speak  to  me.  If  we  should  be  separated — if  it  should 
be  our  lot  to  live  at  a  great  distance,  and  never  to  see  each 
other  again — in  old  age,  iow  I  should  conjure  up  the  memory 
of  my  youthful  days,  and  what  a  melancholy  pleasure  I 
should  feel  in  dwelling  on  the  recollection  of  my  early  friend  ! 
....  I  have  some  qualities  that  make  me  very  miserable, 
some  feelings  that  you  can  have  no  participation  in — that 
few,  very  few,  people  in  the  world  can  at  all  understand.  I 
don't  pride  myself  on  these  peculiarities.  I  strive  to  conceal 
and  suppress  them  as  much  as  I  can ;  but  they  burst  out 
sometimes,  and  then  those  who  see  the  explosion  despise  me, 
and  I  hate  myself  for  days  afterwards.  ...  I  have  just  re- 
ceived your  epistle  and  what  accompanied  it.  I  can't  tell 
what  should  induce  you  and  your  sisters  to  waste  your  kind- 
ness on  such  a  onf  as  me.  I'm  obliged  to  them,  and  I  hope 
you'll  tell  them  so.  I'm  obliged  to  you  also,  more  for  your 
note  than  for  your  present.  The  first  gave  me  pleasure,  the 
last  something  like  pain." 

The  nervous  disturbance,  which  is  stated  to  nave  troubled 
her  while  she  was  at  Miss  Wooler's,  seems  to  have  begun  to 
distress  her  about  this  time ;  at  least,  she  herself  speaks  of 
her  irritable  condition,  which  was  certainly  only  a  temporary 
ailment. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me  of  late,  and  have 
spared  me  all  those  little  sallies  of  ridicule,  which,  owing  to 
VOL.  I. — 6* 


130  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

my  miserable  and  wretched  touchiness  of  character,  used 
formerly  to  make  me  wince,  as  if  I  had  been  touched  with 
a  hot  iron ;  things  that  nobody  else  cares  for,  enter  into  my 
mind  and  rankle  there  like  venom.  I  know  these  feelings 
are  absurd,  and  therefore  I  try  to  hide  them,  but  they  only 
sting  the  deeper  for  concealment." 

Compare  this  state  of  mind  with  the  gentle  resignation 
with  which  she  submitted  to  be  put  aside  as  useless,  or  told 
of  her  ugliness  by  her  schoolfellows,  only  three  years  before. 

*'  My  life  since  I  saw  you  has  passed  as  monotonously 
and  unbroken  as  ever;  nothing  but  teach,  teach,  teach, 
from  morning  till  night.  The  greatest  variety  I  ever  have 
is  afforded  by  a  letter  from  you,  or  by  meeting  with  a  pleas- 
ant new  book.  The  *  Life  of  Oberlin,'  and  *  Legh  Richmond's 
Domestic  Portraiture,'  are  the  last  of  this  description.  The 
latter  work  strongly  attracted  and  strangely  fascinated  my 
attention.  Beg,  borrow,  or  steal  it  without  delay ;  and  read 
the  '  Memoir  of  Wilberforce,' — that  short  record  of  a  brief 
uneventful  life ;  I  shall  never  forget  it ;  it  is  beautiful,  not  on 
account  of  the  language  in  which  it  is  written,  not  on  account 
of  the  incidents  which  it  details,  but  because  of  the  simple 
narrative  it  gives  of  a  young  talented,  sincere  Christian." 

About  this  time  Miss  Wooler  removed  her  school  from 
the  fine,  open,  breozy  situation  of  Roe  Head,  to  Dewsbury 
Moor,  only  two  or  three  miles  distant.  Her  new  residence 
was  a  much  lower  site,  and  the  air  much  less  pure  and  exhil- 
arating to  one  bred  at  the  wild  hill -village  of  Haworth. 
Charlotte  felt  the  cliange  extremely,  and  regretted  it  not 
merely  on  her  own  account,  but  for  the  sake  of  her  sister 
Anne.  Moreover,  Emily  had  gone  as  teacher  to  a  school 
at  Halifax,  where  there  were  nearly  forty  pupils. 

*'  I  have  had  one  letter  from  her  since  her  departure," 
writes  Charlotte,  on  October  2nd,  1836  :  *'  It  gives  an  ap- 
oalling  account  of  her  duties  ;  hard  labour  from  six  in  the 


THE   SISTEES   AT   HOME.  131 

morning  to  eleven  at  night,  witli  only  one  half-hour  of  exercise 
between.  This  is  slavery.  I  fear  she  can  never  stand  it." 
When  the  sisters  met  at  home  in  the  Christmas  holidays, 
they  talked  over  their  lives,  and  the  prospect  which  they  af- 
forded of  occupation  and  remuneration.  They  felt  that  it 
was  a  duty  to  relieve  their  father  of  the  burden  of  their  sup- 
port, if  not  entirely,  or  that  of  all  three,  at  least  that  of  one 
or  two ;  and,  naturally,  the  lot  devolved  upon  the  elder  ones 
to  find  some  remunerative  occupation.  They  knew  that  they 
were  never  likely  to  inherit  much  money.  Mr.  Bronte  had 
but  a  small  stipend,  and  was  both  charitable  and  liberal. 
Their  aunt  had  an  annuity  of  50Z.,  but  it  reverted  to  others 
at  her  death,  and  her  nieces  had  no  right,  and  were  the  last 
persons  in  the  world,  to  reckon  upon  her  savings.  What 
could  they  do  ?  Charlotte  and  Emily  were  trying  teaching, 
and  as  it  seemed  -without  much  success.  The  former,  it  is 
true,  had  the  happiness  of  having  a  friend  for  her  employer, 
and  being  surrounded  by  those  who  knew  her  and  loved  her ; 
but  her  salary  was  too  small  for  her  to  save  out  of  it ;  and 
her  education  did  not  entitle  her  to  a  larger.  The  se^den- 
tary  and  monotonous  nature  of  her  life,  too,  was  preying  up- 
on her  health  rjid  spirits,  although,  with  necessity  "  as  her 
mistress,"  she  might  hardly  like  to  acknowledge  this  eveii 
to  herself.  But  Emily — that  free,  wild  untameable  spirit, 
never  happy  nor  well  but  on  the  sweeping  moors  that  gather- 
ed round  her  homi? — that  hater  of  strangers,  doomed  to  live 
amongst  them,  and  not  merely  to  live  but  to  slave  in  their 
service — ^what  Charlotte  could  have  borne  patiently  for  her- 
self, she  could  not  bear  for  her  sister.  And  yet  what  to  do? 
She  had  once  hoped  that  she  herself  might  become  an  artist, 
and  so  earn  her  livelihood ;  but  her  eyes  had  failed  her  in 
the  minute  and  useless  labour  which  she  had  imposed  upon 
herself  with  a  view  to  this  end. 
.    It  was  the  household  custom  among  these  girls  to  sew  till 


132  LIFE    OF   CITAELOTTE   BEONTfi. 

nine  o'clock  at  night.  At  that  hour,  Miss  Branwell  general 
Ij  went  to  bed,  and  her  nieces'  duties  for  the  day  were  ac- 
counted done.  They  put  away  their  work,  and  began  to 
pace  the  room  backwards  and  forwards,  up  and  down, — as 
often  with  the  candles  extinguished,  for  economy's  sake,  as 
not, — their  figures  glancing  into  the  fire-light,  and  out  into 
the  shadow,  perpetually.  At  this  time,  they  talked  over  past 
cares,  and  troubles;  they  planned  for  the  future,  and  con- 
sulted each  other  as  to  their  plans.  Tn  after  years,  this  was 
the  time  for  discussing  together  the  plots  of  their  novels. 
And  again  still  later  this  was  the  time  for  the  last  surviving 
sister  to  walk  alone,  from  old  accustomed  habit,  round  and 
round  the  desolate  room,  thinking  sadly  upon  fche  ^^  days  that 
were  no  more."  But  this  Christmas  of  1836  was  not  without  its 
hopes,  and  daring  aspirations.  They  had  tried  their  hands 
at  story- writing,  in  their  miniature  magazine,  long  ago ;  they 
all  of  them  ^^  made  out  "  perpetually.  They  had  likewise  at- 
tempted to  write  poetry ;  and  had  a  modest  confidence  that 
they  had  achieved  a  tolerable  success.  But  they  knew  that 
they  might  deceive  themselves,  and  that  sisters'  judgments  of 
each  other's  productions  were  likely  to  be  too  partial  to  be 
depended  upon.  So  Charlotte  as  the  eldest  resolved  to  write 
to  Southey.  I  believe  (from  an  expression  in  a  letter  to  be 
noticed  hereafter),  that  she  also  consulted  Coleridge ;  but  I 
have  nob  met  with  any  part  of  that  correspondence. 

On  December  29th,  her  letter  to  Southey  was  despatch- 
ed; and  from  an  excitement  not  unnatural  in  a  girl  who  has 
worked  herself  up  to  the  pitch  of  writing  to  a  Poet  Laureate 
and  asking  his  opinion  of  her  poems,  she  used  some  high- 
flown  expressions,  which,  probably,  gave  him  the  idea  that 
she  was  a  romantic  young  lady,  unacquainted  with  the  reali- 
ties of  life. 

This  most  likely  was  the  first  of  those  adventurous  let- 
ters that  passed  through  the  little  post-office  of  Hawortb 


BRANWELL'S   LETTER   TO    WORDSWORTH.  132 

Morning  after  morning  of  the  holidays  slipped  aifri^y,  and 
there  was  no  answer ;  the  sisters  had  to  leave  home,  and  Emily 
to  return  to  her  distasteful  duties,  without  knowing  even 
whether  Charlotte's  letter  had  ever  reached  its  destination. 
Not  dispirited,  however,  by  the  delay,  Branwell  deter- 
mined to  try  a  similar  venture,  and  addressed  the  following 
emarkable  letter  to  Wordsworth.  It  was  given  by  the  poet 
•o  Mr.  Quillinan  in  1850,  after  the  name  of  Bronte  had  be- 
come known  and  famous.  I  have  no  means  of  ascertaining 
what  answer  was  returned  by  Mr.  Wordsworth  ;  but  that  he 
considered  the  letter  remarkable  may,  I  think,  be  inferred 
both  from  its  preservation,  and  its  recurrence  to  his  memory 
when  the  real  name  of  Currer  Bell  was  made  known  to  the 
public. 

Haworthj  near  Bradford^ 
YorTcshire,  January  19,  1837. 

*'  SiE, — I  most  earnestly  entreat  you  to  read  and  pass 
your  judgment  upon  what  I  have  sent  you,  because  from  the 
day  of  my  birth  to  this  the  nineteenth  year  of  my  lilV,  I  have 
lived  among  secluded  hills,  where  I  could  neither  know  what 
I  was,  or  what  I  could  do.  I  read  for  the  same  reason  that 
I  ate  or  draiik  ;  because  it  was  a  real  craving  of  nature.  I 
wrote  on  the  same  principle  as  I  spoke — out  of  the  impulse 
and  feelings  of  the  mind  ;  nor  could  I  help  it,  for  what  came, 
came  out,  and  thers  was  the  end  of  it.  For  as  to  self-conceit, 
that  could  not  receive  food  from  flattery,  since  to  thiaf  hour, 
not  half  a  dozen  people  in  the  world  know  that  I  havf>  ever 
penned  a  line. 

'*  But  a  change  has  taken  place  now,  sir :  and  I  am  ar 
rived  at  an  age  wherein  I  must  do  something  for  myself : 
the  powers  I  possess  must  be  exercised  to  a  definite  end,  and 
as  I  don't  know  them  myself  I  must  ask  of  others  what  they 
are  worth.     Yet  there  is  not  one  here  to  tell  me ;  anc^  ^till 


134  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

if  tliey  are  worthless,  time  will  henceforth  be  too  precious  tc 
be  wasted  on  them. 

"  Do  pardon  me,  sir,  that  I  have  ventured  to  come  before 
one  whose  works  I  have  most  loved  in  our  literature,  and 
who  most  has  been  with  me  a  divinity  of  the  mind, — ^laying 
before  him  one  of  my  writings,  and  asking  of  him  a  judgment 
of  its  contents.  I  must  come  before  some  one  from  whose 
sentence  there  is  no  appeal ;  and  such  a  one  is  he  who  has 
developed  the  theory  of  poetry  as  well  as  its  practice,  and 
both  in  such  a  way  as  to  claim  a  place  in  the  memory  of  a 
thousand  years  to  come. 

"  My  aim,  sir,  is  to  push  out  into  the  open  world,  and  for 
this  I  trust  not  poetry  alone — that  might  launch  the  vessel, 
but  could  not  bear  her  on ;  sensible  and  scientific  prose,  bold 
and  vigorous  efforts  in  my  walk  in  life,  would  give  a  farther 
title  to  the  notice  of  the  world  ;  and  then  again  poetry  ought 
to  brighten  and  crown  that  name  with  glory ;  but  nothing  of 
all  this  can  be  ever  begun  without  means,  and  as  I  don't  possess 
these,  I  must  in  every  shape  strive  to  gain  them.  Surely, 
in  this  day  when  there  is  not  a  writing  poet  worth  a  sixpence, 
the  field  must  be  open,  if  a  better  man  can  step  forward. 

"  What  I  send  you  is  the  Prefatory  Scene  of  a  much 
longer  subject,  in  which  I  have  striven  to  develope  strong 
passions  and  weak  principles  struggling  with  a  high  imagina- 
tion and  acute  feelings,  till  as  youth  hardens  towards  age, 
evil  deeds  and  short  enjoyments  end  in  mental  misery  and 
bodily  ruin.  Now,  to  send  you  the  whole  of  this  would  be  a 
mock  upon  your  patience  ;  what  you  see,  does  not  even  pre- 
tend to  be  more  than  the  description  of  an  imaginative  child. 
But  read  it,  sir ;  and  as  you  would  hold  a  light  to  one  in 
utter  darkness — as  you  value  your  own  kind-heartedness — 
return  me  an  answer^  if  but  one  word,  telling  me  whether  I 
should  write  on,  or  write  no  more.     Forgive  undue  warmth, 


FRAGMENT   BY   BKANWELL   BRONTE.  135 

becalise  my  feelings  in  this  matter  cannot  be  cool ,  and  be- 
lieve me,  sir,  with  deep  respect, 

"  Your  really  humble  servant, 

P.  B.  Bronte." 

The  poetry  enclosed  seems  to  me  by  no  means  equal  to 
parts  of  the  letter  *  but,  as  every  one  likes  to  judge  for  him- 
self, I  copy  the  six  opening  stanzas — about  a  third  of  the 
whole,  and  certainly  not  the  worst. 

So  where  he  reigns  in  glory  bright, 
Above  those  staiTy  skies  of  night. 
Amid  his  paradise  of  light 
Oh,  why  may  I  not  be  ? 

Oft  when  awake  on  Christmas  mom. 
In  sleepless  twilight  laid  forlorn. 
Strange  thoughts  have  o'er  my  mind  been  home, 
How  He  has  died  for  me. 

And  oft  within  my  chamber  lying, 
Have  I  awaked  myself  with  crying 
From  dreams,  where  I  beheld  Him  dying 
Upon  the  accursed  Tree. 

And  often  has  my  mother  said. 
While  on  her  lap  I  laid  my  head, 
She  feared  for  time  I  was  not  made, 
But  for  Eternity. 

So  "  I  can  re*^d  my  title  clear. 

To  mansions  in  the  skies, 
And  let  me  bid  farewell  to  fear. 

And  wipe  my  weeping  eyes. 

I'll  lay  me  down  on  this  marble  stone, 

And  set  the  world  aside, 
To  see  upon  her  ebon  throne 

The  Moon  in  glory  ride. 


136  LITE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

Soon  after  Charlotte  returned  to  Dewsburj  Moor,  slie 
was  distressed  by  hearing  that  her  friend  E.  was  likely  tc 
leave  the  neighbourhood  for  a  considerable  length  of  time. 

"  Feh.  20th. 
"  What  shall  I  do  without  you  ?  How  long  are  we  likelj^ 
o  be  separated  ?  Why  are  we  to  be  denied  each  other's  so- 
ciety ?  It  is  an  inscrutable  fatality.  I  long  to  be  with  you, 
because  it  seems  as  if  two  or  three  days,  or  weeks,  spent  in 
your  company  would  beyond  measure  strengthen  me  in  the 
enjoyment  of  those  feelings  which  I  have  so  lately  begun  to 
cherish.  You  first  pointed  out  to  me  that  way  in  which  I 
am  so  feebly  endeavouring  to  travel,  and  now  I  cannot  keep 
you  by  my  side,  I  must  proceed  sorrowfully  alone.  Why 
are  we  to  be  divided  ?  Surely,  it  must  be  because  we  are  in 
danger  of  loving  each  other  too  well — of  losing  sight  of  the 
Creator  in  idolatry  of  the  creature.  At  first,  I  could  not  say 
*  Thy  will  be  done  ! '  I  felt  rebellious,  but  I  knew  it  was 
wrong  to  feel  so.  Being  left  a  moment  alone  this  morning, 
I  prayed  fervently  to  be  enabled  to  resign  myself  to  everf/ 
decree  of  God's  will,  though  it  should  be  dealt  forth  by  a  far 
severer  hand  than  the  present  disappointment ;  since  then  I 
have  felt  calmer  and  humbler,  and  consequently  happier. 
Last  Sunday  I  took  up  my  Bible  in  a  gloomy  state  of  mind  : 
I  began  to  read — a  feeling  stole  over  me  such  as  I  have  not 
known  for  many  long  years — a  sweet,  placid  sensation,  like 
those,  I  remember,  which  used  to  visit  me  when  I  was  a  little 
child,  and,  on  Sunday  evenings  in  summer,  stood  by  the  open 
window  reading  the  life  of  a  certain  French  nobleman,  who 
attained  a  purer  and  a  higher  degree  of  sanctity  than  has 
been  known  since  the  days  of  the  early  martyrs." 

E.'s  residence  was  equally  within  a  walk  from  Dewsbury 
Moor  as  it  had   been   from  Eoe  Head;  and   on   Saturday 


DISPUTES   ABOUT   POLITICS    AKD   RELIGIOlSr.  137 

afternoons  both  Mary  and  she  used  to  call  upon  Charlotte, 
and  often  endeavoured  to  persuade  her  to  return  with  them, 
and  be  the  guest  of  one  of  them  till  Monday  morning ;  but 
this  was  comparatively  seldom.  Mary  says  : — "  She  visited 
us  twice  or  thrice  when  she  was  at  Miss  Wooler's.  We  used 
to  dispute  about  politics  and  religion.  She,  a  Tory  and  cler- 
gyman's daughter,  was  always  in  a  minority  of  one  in  our 
house  of  violent  Dissent  and  Kadicalism.  She  used  to 
hear  over  again,  delivered  with  authority^  all  the  lectures  I 
had  been  used  to  give  her  at  school  on  despotic  aristocracy, 
mercenary  priesthood,  &c.  She  had  not  energy  to  defend 
herself;  sometimes  she  owned  to  a  little  truth  in  it,  but  gen- 
erally said  nothing.  Her  feeble  health  gave  her  her  yield- 
ing manner,  for  she  could  never  oppose  any  one  without 
gathering  up  all  her  strength  for  the  struggle.  Thus  she 
would  let  me  advise  and  patronize  most  imperiously,  some- 
times picking  out  any  grain  of  sense  there  might  be  in  what 
I  said,  but  never  allowing  any  one  materially  to  interfere 
with  her  independence  of  thought  and  action.  Though  her 
silence  sometimes  left  one  under  the  impression  that  she 
agreed  when  she  did  not,  she  never  gave  a  flattering  opinion, 
and  thus  her  words  were  golden,  whether  for  praise  or 
blame." 

Mary's  father  was  a  man  of  remarkable  intelligence,  but 
of  strong,  not  to  say  violent  prejudices,  all  running  in  favour 
of  Republicanism  and  Dissent.  No  other  county  but  York- 
shire could  have  produced  such  a  man.  His  brother  had 
been  a  detenu  in  France,  and  had  afterwards  voluntarily 
taken  up  his  residence  there.  Mr.  T.  himself  had  been 
much  abroad,  both  on  business  and  to  see  the  great  continen- 
tal galleries  of  paintings.  He  spoke  French  perfectly,  I 
have  been  told,  when  need  was ;  but  delighted  usually  in 
talking  the  broadest  Yorkshire.  He  bought  splendid  en- 
gravings of  the  pictures  which  he  particularly  admired,  and 


138  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTS. 

his  house  was  full  of  works  of  art  and  of  books ;  but  h« 
rather  liked  to  present  his  rough  side  to  any  stranger  or 
new-comer ;  he  would  speak  his  broadest,  bring  out  his 
opinions  on  Church  and  State  in  their  most  startling  forms, 
and,  by  and  by,  if  he  found  his  hearer  could  stand  the 
shock,  he  would  involuntarily  show  his  warm  kind  heart, 
and  his  true  taste,  and  real  refinement.  His  family  of 
four  sons  and  two  daughters  were  brought  up  on  Kepublican 
principles ;  independence  of  thought  and  action  was  en- 
couraged ;  no  "  shams  "  tolerated.  They  are  scattered  far 
and  wide ;  Martha,  the  younger  daughter,  sleeps  in  the 
Protestant  cemetery  at  Brussels ;  Mary  is  in  New  Zealand  ; 
Mr.  T.  is  dead.  And  so  life  and  death  have  dispersed  the 
circle  of  "  violent  Radicals  and  Dissenters "  into  which, 
twenty  years  ago,  the  little,  quiet,  resolute  clergyman's 
daughter  was  received,  and  by  whom  she  was  truly  loved 
and  honoured. 

January  and  February  of  1837  had  passed  away,  and 
still  there  was  no  reply  from  Southey.  Probably  she  had 
lost  expectation  and  almost  hope  when  at  length,  in  the 
beginning  of  March,  she  received  the  letter  inserted  in  Mr. 
C.  C.  Southey's  life  of  his  Father,  Vol.  VI.,  p.  327. 

After  accounting  for  his  delay  in  replying  to  hers  by 
the  fact  of  a  long  absence  from  home,  during  which  his 
letters  had  accumulated,  whence  "  it  has  lain  unanswered 
till  the  last  of  a  numerous  file,  not  from  disrespect  or  indifi"er- 
ence  to  its  contents,  but  because  in  truth  it  is  not  an  easy 
task  to  answer  it,  nor  a  pleasant  one  to  cast  a  damp  over  tho 
high  spirits  and  the  generous  desires  of  youth,"  he  goes  on 
to  say  :  "  What  you  are  I  can  only  infer  from  your  letter, 
which  appears  to  be  written  in  sincerity,  though,  I  may 
suspect  that  you  have  used  a  fictitious  signature.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  the  letter  and  the  verses  bear  the  same  stamp 
apd  I  can  well  understand  the  state  of  mind  they  indicate.' 


LETTER   lEOK   SOUTHEY.  139 

*•  It  is  not  my  advice  tliat  you  have  asked  as  to  the  iirec- 
cion  of  your  talents,  but  my  opinion  of  them,  and  yet  the 
opinion  may  be  worth  little,  and  the  advice  much.  You 
evidently  possess,  and  in  no  inconsiderable  degree,  what 
Wordsworth  calls  the  *  faculty  of  verse.'  I  am  not  depre- 
ciating it  when  I  say  that  in  these  times  it  is  not  rare. 
Many  volumes  of  poems  are  now  published  every  year  with- 
out attracting  public  attention,  any  one  of  which,  if  it  had 
appeared  half  a  century  ago,  would  have  obtained  a  high 
reputation  for  its  author.  Whoever,  therefore,  is  ambitious 
of  distinction  in  this  way  ought  to  be  prepared  for  disap- 
pointment. 

"  But  it  is  not  with  a  view  to  distinction  that  you  should 
cultivate  this  talent,  if  you  consult  your  own  happiness.  I, 
who  have  made  literature  my  profession,  and  devoted  my 
life  to  it,  and  have  never  for  a  moment  repented  of  the 
deliberate  choice,  think  myself,  nevertheless,  bound  in 
duty  to  caution  every  young  man  who  applies  as  an  aspirant 
to  me  for  encouragement  and  advice,  against  taking  so  peril- 
ous a  course.  You  will  say  that  a  woman  has  no  need  of 
such  a  caution  ;  there  can  be  no  peril  in  it  for  her.  In  a 
certain  sense  this  is  true ;  but  there  is  a  danger  of  which  I 
would,  with  all  kindness  and  in  all  earnestness,  warn  you. 
The  day  dreams  in  which  you  habitually  indulge  are  likely 
to  induce  a  distempered  state  of  mind ;  and  in  proportion  as 
all  the  ordinary  uses  of  the  world  seem  to  you  flat  and  un- 
profitable, you  will  be  unfitted  for  them  without  becoming 
fitted  for  anything  else.  Literature  cannot  be  the  business 
of  a  woman's  life,  and  it  ought  not  to  be.  The  more  sh 
is  engaged  in  her  proper  duties,  the  less  leisure  will  she  have 
for  it,  even  as  an  accomplishment  and  a  recreation-  To 
those  duties  you  have  not  yet  been  called,  and  when  you 
are  you  will  be  less  eager  for  celebrity.  You  will  not  seek 
>^  imagination  for   excitement,  of  which  the  vicissitudes  of 


140  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

this  life,  and  the  anxieties  from  which  jou  ''jiust  not  hope  to 
be  exempted,  be  your  state  what  it  may,  will  bring  with 
them  but  too  much. 

"  Eut  do  not  suppose  that  I  disparage  the  gift  which  you 
possess  ;  nor  that  I  would  discourage  you  from  exercising  it. 
I  only  exhort  you  so  to  think  of  it,  and  so  to  use  it,  as  to 
ender  it  conducive  to  your  own  permanent  good.  Write 
poetry  for  its  own  sake ;  not  in  a  spirit  of  emulation,  and 
not  with  a  view  to  celebrity ;  the  less  you  aim  at  that,  the 
more  likely  you  will  be  to  deserve  and  finally  to  obtain  it. 
So  written,  it  is  wholesome  both  for  the  heart  and  eoul ;  it 
may  be  made  the  surest  means,  next  to  religion,  of  soothing 
the  mind  and  elevating  it.  You  may  embody  in  it  your 
best  thoughts  and  your  wisest  feelings,  and  in  so  doing  dis- 
cipline and  strengthen  them. 

"  Farewell,  madam.  It  is  not  because  I  have  forgotten 
that  I  was  once  young  myself,  that  I  write  to  you  in  this 
strain ;  but  because  I  remember  it.  You  will  neither  doubt 
my  sincerity  nor  my  good  will ;  and  however  ill  what  has 
here  been  said  may  accord  with  your  present  views  and  tem- 
per, the  longer  you  live  the  more  reasonable  it  will  appear  to 
you.  Though  I  may  be  but  an  ungracious  adviser,  you  will 
allow  me  therefore,  to  subscribe  myself,  with  the  best  wishes 
for  your  happ'ness  here  and  hereafter,  your  true  friend, 

"  Robert  Southey.' 

I  was  with  Miss  Bronte  when  she  received  Mr.  Cutli- 
bert  Southey's  note,  requesting  her  permission  to  insert  the 
foregoing  letter  in  his  father's  life.  She  said  to  me,  "  Mr, 
Southey's  letter  was  kind  and  admirable ;  a  little  stringent, 
but  it  dia  me  good." 

It  is  partly  because  I  think  it  so  admirable,  and  partly 
because  it  tends  to  bring  out  her  character,  as  shown  in  the 
following  reply,  that  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  inserting 
the  above  extracts  from  it. 


HER   REPLY   TO    SOUTHEY.  14^ 

''  March  16th, 

"  Sir, 

"  I  cannot  rest  till  I  have  answered  your  letter, 
even  though  by  addressing  you  a  second  time  I  should  appear 
a  little  intrusive ;  but  I  must  thank  you  for  the  kind  and 
wise  advice  you  have  condescended  to  give  me.  I  had  not 
ventured  to  hope  for  such  a  reply ;  so  considerate  in  its  tone, 
eo  noble  in  its  spirit.  I  must  suppress  what  I  feel,  or  you 
will  think  me  foolishly  enthusiastic. 

"  At  the  first  perusal  of  your  letter,  I  felt  only  shame 
and  regret  that  I  had  ever  ventured  to  trouble  you  with  my 
crude  rhapsody;  I  felt  a  painful  heat  rise  to  my  face  when 
I  thought  of  the  quires  of  paper  I  had  covered  with  what 
once  gave  me  so  much  delight,  but  which  now  was  only  a 
source  of  confusion ;  but,  after  I  had  thought  a  little  and 
read  it  again  and  again,  the  prospect  seemed  to  clear.  You 
do  not  forbid  me  to  write  ;  you  do  not  say  that  what  I  write 
is  utterly  destitute  of  merit.  You  only  warn  me  against  the 
folly  of  neglecting  real  duties,  for  the  sake  of  imaginative 
pleasures ;  of  writing  for  the  love  of  fame ;  for  the  selfish 
excitement  of  emulation.  You  kindly  allow  me  to  write 
poetry  for  its  own  sake,  provided  I  leave  undone  nothing 
which  I  ought  to  do,  in  order  to  pursue  that  single,  absorb- 
ing, exquisite  gratification.  I  am  afraid,  sir,  you  think  me 
very  foolish.  I  know  the  first  letter  I  wrote  to  you  was  all 
senseless  trash  from  beginning  to  end ;  but  I  am  not  alto- 
gether the  idle  dreaming  being  it  would  seem  to  denote. 
My  father  is  a  clergyman  of  limited,  though  competent,  in- 
come, and  I  am  the  eldest  of  his  children.  He  expended 
quite  as  much  in  my  education  as  he  could  afford  in  justice 
to  the  rest.  I  thought  it  therefore  my  duty,  when  I  left 
school,  to  become  a  governess.  In  that  capacity  I  find 
enough  to  occupy  my  thoughts  all  day  long,  and  my  head 
and  hands  too,  without  having  a  moment's  time  for  one 


142  LIFE  OF  CHAKLOTTE  BRONTE. 

dream  of  the  imagination.  In  the  evenings,  I  confess,  I  d(S 
think,  but  I  never  trouble  any  one  else  with  my  thoughts 
I  carefully  avoid  any  appearance  of  pre-occupation  and 
eccentricity,  which  might  lead  those  I  live  amongst  to  sus- 
pect the  nature  of  my  pursuits.  Following  my  father's 
advice — who  from  my  childhood  has  counselled  me  just  in 
the  wise  and  friendly  tone  of  your  letter — I  have  endeavoured 
not  only  attentively  to  observe  all  the  duties  a  woman  ought 
to  fulfil,  but  to  feel  deeply  interested  in  them.  I  don't 
always  succeed,  for  sometimes  when  I'm  teaching  or  sewing 
I  would  rather  be  reading  or  writing ;  but  I  try  to  deny 
myself;  and  my  father's  approbation  amply  rewarded  me 
for  the  privation.  Once  more  allow  me  to  thank  you  with 
sincere  gratitude.  I  trust  I  shall  never  more  feel  ambitious 
to  see  my  name  in  print ;  if  the  wish  should  rise  I'll  look  at 
Southey's  letter,  and  suppress  it.  It  is  honour  enough  for 
me  that  I  have  written  to  him,  and  received  an  answer. 
That  letter  is  consecrated ;  no  one  shall  ever  see  it,  but  papa 
and  my  brother  and  sisters.  Again  I  thank  you.  This 
incident,  I  suppose,  will  be  renewed  no  more ;  if  I  live  to  be 
an  old  woman,  I  shall  remember  it  thirty  years  hence  as  a 
bright  dream.  The  signature  which  you  suspected  of  being 
fictitious  is  my  real  name.     Again,  therefore,  I  must  sign 

myself, 

^'C    Beonte." 

a  p.  g. — Pray,  sir,  excuse  me  for  writing  to  you  a  second 
time  ;  I  could  not  help  writing,  partly  to  tell  you  how  thank- 
ful I  am  for  your  kindness,  and  partly  to  let  you  know  that 
your  advice  shall  not  be  wasted ;  however  sorrowfully  and 
reluctantly  it  may  be  at  first  followed.  "  C    B." 

I  cannot  deny  myself  the  gratification  of  inserting 
Southey's  reply : — 


southey's  akswee.  143 

''Keswick,  March  22,  1837. 

"Dear  Madam, 

"  Your  letter  has  given  me  great  pleasure,  and  I 
should  not  forgive  myself  if  I  did  not  tell  you  so.  You 
have  received  admonition  as  considerately  and  as  kindly  as 
it  was  given.  Let  me  now  request  that,  if  you  ever  should 
come  to  these  lakes  while  I  am  living  here,  you  will  let  me 
see  you.  You  would  then  think  of  me  afterwards  with  the 
more  goodwill,  because  you  would  perceive  that  there  is 
neither  severity  nor  moroseness  in  the  state  of  mind  to  which 
years  and  observation  have  brought  me. 

"  It  is,  by  God's  mercy,  in  our  power  to  attain  a  degree 
of  self-government,  which  is  essential  to  our  own  happiness, 
and  contributes  greatly  to  that  of  those  around  us.  Take 
care  of  over-excitement,  and  endeavour  to  keep  a  quiet  mind 
(even  for  your  health  it  is  the  best  advice  that  can  be  given 
you) :  your  moral  and  spiritual  improvement  will  then  keep 
pace  with  the  culture  of  your  intellectual  powers. 

"  And  now.  Madam,  God  bless  you  ! 

"  Farewell,  and  believe  me  to  be  your  sincere  friend, 

"KOBERT    SOUTHEY." 

Of  this  second  letter  also  she  spoke,  and  told  me  t?hat  it 
contained  an  invitation  for  her  to  go  and  see  the  poet  if  ever 
she  visited  the  Lakes.  ''  But  there  was  no  money  to  spare,' ^ 
said  she,  "nor  any  prospect  of  my  ever  earning  money 
enough  to  have  the  chance  of  so  great  a  pleasure,  so  I  gave 
up  thinking  of  it."  At  the  time  we  conversed  together  on 
the  subject  we  were  at  the  Lakes.     But  Southey  was  dead. 

This  "  stringent "  letter  made  her  put  aside,  for  a  time, 
all  idea  of  literary  enterprise.  She  bent  her  whole  energy 
towards  the  fulfilment  of  the  duties  in  hand ;  but  her  occu- 
pation was  not  sufficient  food  for  her  great  forces  of  intellect, 
and  they  cried  out  perpetually,  "  Give,  give  "  while  the  flat 


144  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BEONTE. 

and  comparatively  stagnant  air  of  Dewsbury  Moor  told 
upon  her  health  and  spirits  more  and  more.  On  Augiist  27, 
1837,  she  writes  : — 

^'  I  am  again  at  Dewsbury,  engaged  in  the  old  business, — 
teach,  teach,  teach.  .  .  .  When  will  you  come  horned 
Make  haste !  You  have  been  at  Bath  long  enough  for  all 
purposes ;  by  this  time  you  have  acquired  polish  enough,  I 
\m  sure ;  if  the  varnish  is  laid  on  much  thicker,  I  am  afraid 
the  good  wood  underneath  will  be  quite  concealed,  and  your 
Yorkshire  friends  won't  stand  that.  Come,  come.  I  am 
getting  really  tired  of  your  absence.  Saturday  after  Satur- 
day comes  round,  and  I  can  have  no  hope  of  hearing  your 
knock  at  the  door,  and  then  being  told  that  ^  Miss  E.  is 
come.'  Oh  dear  !  in  this  monotonous  life  of  mine,  that  was 
a  pleasant  event.  I  wish  it  would  recur  again ;  but  it  will 
take  two  or  three  interviews  before  the  stiffness — the  estrange- 
ment of  this  long  separation — will  wear  away." 

About  this  time  she  forgot  to  return  a  work-bag  she  had 
borrowed,  by  a  messenger,  and  in  repairing  her  error  she 
says  : — "  These  aberrations  of  memory  warn  me  pretty  in- 
telligibly that  I  am  getting  past  my  prime."  -ffitat.  21 ! 
And  the  same  tone  of  despondency  runs  through  the  follow- 
ing letter : — 

*'  I  wish  exceedingly  that  I  could  come  to  you  before 
Christmas,  but  it  is  impossible ;  another  three  weeks  must 
elapse  before  I  shall  again  have  my  comforter  beside  me^ 
under  the  roof  of  my  own  dear  quiet  home.  If  I  could 
always  live  with  you,  and  daily  read  the  Bible  with  you — if 
your  lips  and  mine  could  at  the  same  time  drink  the  same 
draught,  from  the  same  pure  fountain  of  mercy — I  hope,  I 
trust.  I  might  one  day  become  better,  far  better  than  my 


DESPONDENCY.  1 45 

evil,  wandering  thoughts,  my  corrupt  heart,  cold  to  the  spirit 
and  warm  to  the  flesh,  will  now  permit  me  to  be.  I  often 
plan  the  pleasant  life  which  we  might  lead  together,  strength- 
ening each  other  in  that  power  of  self-denial,  that  hallowed 
and  glowing  devotion,  which  the  first  saints  of  God  often  at- 
tained to.  My  eyes  fill  with  tears  when  I  contrast  the  bliss 
of  such  a  state,  brightened  by  hopes  of  the  future,  with  the 
melancholy  state  I  now  live  in,  uncertain  that  I  ever  felt  true 
contrition,  wandering  in  thought  and  deed,  longing  for  holi- 
ness, which  I  shall  never^  never  obtain,  smitten  at  times  to 
the  heart  with  the  conviction  that  ghastly  Calvinistic  doc- 
trines are  true — darkened,  in  short,  by  the  very  shadows  of 
spiritual  death.  If  Christian  perfection  be  necessary  to  sal- 
vation, I  shall  never  be  saved ;  my  heart  is  a  very  hot-bed 
for  sinful  thoughts,  and  when  I  decide  on  an  action  I  scarce- 
ly remember  to  look  to  my  Redeemer  for  direction.  I  know 
not  how  to  pray ;  I  cannot  bend  my  life  to  the  grand  end  of 
doing  good ;  I  go  on  constantly  seeking  my  own  pleasure, 
pursuing  the  gratification  of  my  own  desires.  I  forget  God, 
and  will  not  God  forget  me  ?  And,  meantime,  I  know  the 
greatness  of  Jehovah ;  I  acknowledge  the  perfection  of  His 
word ;  I  adore  the  purity  of  the  Christian  faith  ;  my  theory 
is  right,  my  practice  horribly  wrong.'' 

The  Christmas  holidays  came,  and  she  and  Anne  return 
ed  to  the  parsonage,  and  to  that  happy  home  circle  in  which 
alone  their  natures  expanded  ;  amongst  all  other  people  they 
shrivelled  up  more  or  less.  Indeed,  there  were  only  one  or 
two  strangers  who  could  be  admitted  among  the  sisters  with- 
out producing  the  same  result.  Emily  and  Anne  were  bound 
up  in  their  lives  and  interests  like  twins.  The  former  from 
reserve,  the  latter  from  timidity,  avoided  all  friendships  and 
intimacies  beyond  their  sisters.  Emily  was  impervious  to 
influence ;  she  never  came  in  contact  with  public  opiniouj 
VOL.  I — 7 


146  LIFE    OF   CHARLOTTE   BROl^TE. 

and  her  own  decision  of  what  was  right  and  fitting  was  a 
law  for  her  conduct  and  appearance,  with  which  she  allowed 
no  one  to  interfere.  Her  love  was  poured  out  on  Anne,  as 
Charlotte's  was  on  her.  But  the  affection  among  all  the 
three  was  stronger  than  either  death  or  life. 

E.  was  eagerly  welcomed  by  Charlotte,  freely  admitted 
by  Emily,  and  kindly  received  by  Anne,  whenever  she  could 
come  amongst  them ;  and  this  Christmas  she  had  promised 
to  visit  Haworth,  but  her  coming  had  to  be  delayed  on  ac- 
count of  a  little  domestic  accident  detailed  in  the  following 
letter  : — 

"  Dec,  29,  1837. 
*'  1  am  sure  you  will  have  thought  me  very  remiss,  in  not 
sending  my  promised  letter  long  before  now ;  but  I  have  a 
sufficient  and  very  melancholy  excuse  in  an  accident  that 
befell  our  old  faithful  Tabby,  a  few  days  after  my  return 
home.  She  was  gone  out  into  the  village  on  some  errand, 
when,  as  she  w^as  descending  the  steep  street,  her  foot  slipped 
on  the  ice,  and  she  fell ;  it  was  dark,  and  no  one  saw  her 
mischance,  till  after  a  time  her  groans  attracted  the  attention 
of  a  passer-by.  She  was  lifted  up  and  carried  into  the  drug- 
gist's near ;  and,  after  the  examination,  it  was  discovered 
that  she  had  completely  shattered  and  dislocated  one  leg. 
Unfortunately,  the  fracture  could  not  be  set  till  six  o'clock 
the  next  morning,  as  no  surgeon  was  to  be  had  before  that 
time,  and  she  now  lies  at  our  house  in  a  very  doubtful  and 
dangerous  state.  Of  course  we  are  all  exceedingly  distressed 
at  the  circumstance,  for  she  was  like  one  of  our  own  family. 
Since  the  event  we  have  been  almost  without  assistance — a 
person  has  dropped  in  now  and  then  to  do  the  drudgery,  but 
we  have  as  yet  been  able  to  procure  no  regular  servant;  and, 
consequently,  the  whole  work  of  the  house,  as  well  as  the 
ftdditional  duty  of  nursing  Tabby,  falls  on  ourselves.     Undor 


AN   ACCIDENT.  147 

these  circumstances  I  dare  not  press  your  visit  here,  at  least 
until  she  is  pronounced  out  of  danger ;  it  would  be  too  selfish 
of  me.  Aunt  wished  me  to  give  you  this  information  before, 
but  papa  and  all  the  rest  were  anxious  I  should  delay  until 
we  saw  whether  matters  took  a  more  settled  aspect,  and  I 
myself  kept  putting  it  off  from  day  to  day,  most  bitterly 
reluctant  to  give  up  all  the  pleasure  I  had  anticipated  so 
Jong.  However,  remembering  what  you  told  me,  namely, 
that  you  had  commended  the  matter  to  a  higher  decision 
than  ours,  and  that  you  were  resolved  to  submit  with  resig- 
nation to  that  decision,  whatever  it  might  be,  I  hold  it  my 
duty  to  yield  also,  and  to  be  silent ;  it  may  be  all  for  the 
best.  I  fear,  if  you  had  been  here  during  this  severe  weather, 
your  visit  would  have  been  of  no  advantage  to  you,  for  the 
moors  are  blockaded  with  snow,  and  you  would  never  have 
been  able  to  get  out.  After  this  disappointment,  I  never 
dare  reckon  with  certainty  on  the  enjoyment  of  a  pleasure 
again ;  it  seems  as  if  some  fatality  stood  between  you  and 
me.  I  am  not  good  enough  for  you,  and  you  must  be  kept 
from  the  contamination  of  too  intimate  society.  I  would 
urge  your  visit  yet — I  would  entreat  and  press  it — but  the 
thought  comes  across  me,  should  Tabby  die  while  you  are  in 
the  house,  I  should  never  forgive  myself.  No  !  it  must  not 
be,  and  in  a  thousand  ways  the  consciousness  of  that  morti- 
fies and  disappoints  me  most  keenly.  And  I  am  not  the 
only  one  who  is  disappointed.  All  in  the  house  were  look- 
ing to  your  visit  with  eagerness.  Papa  says  he  highly  ap- 
proves of  my  friendship  with  you,  and  he  wishes  me  to  con- 
tinue it  through  life." 

A  good  neighbour  of  the  Brontes — a  clever,  intelligent 
Yorkshire  woman,  who  keeps  a  druggist's  shop  in  Haworth, 
and  from  her  occupation,  her  experience,  and  excellent  sense^ 
holds  the  position  of  village  doctress  and  nurse,  and,  as  such, 


l-ivS  LIFE   OF    CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

has  been  a  friend,  in  many  a  time  of  trial^  and  sickness,  and 
death,  in  the  households  round — told  me  a  characteristic 
little  incident  connected  with  Tabby's  fractured  leg.  Mr. 
Bronte  is  truly  generous  and  regardful  of  all  deserving 
claims.  Tabby  had  lived  with  them  for  ten  or  twelve  years, 
and  was,  as  Charlotte  expressed  it,  "  one  of  the  family." 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  past  the  age  for  any  very 
active  service,  being  nearer  seventy  than  sixty  at  the  time 
of  the  accident ;  she  had  a  sister  living  in  Haworth ;  and 
the  savings  she  had  accumulated,  during  many  years'  service, 
formed  a  competency  for  one  in  her  rank  of  life.  Or  if,  in 
this  time  of  sickness,  she  fell  short  of  any  comforts  which 
her  state  rendered  necessary,  the  parsonage  could  supply 
them.  So  reasoned  Miss  Branwell,  the  prudent,  not  to  say 
anxious  aunt ;  looking  to  the  limited  contents  of  Mr.  Bronte's 
purse,  and  the  unprovided-for  future  of  her  nieces;  who 
were,  moreover,  losing  the  relaxation  of  the  holidays,  in  close 
attendance  upon  Tabby. 

Miss  Branwell  urged  her  views  upon  Mr.  Bronte  as  soon 
as  the  immediate  danger  to  the  old  servant's  life  was  over. 
He  refused  at  first  to  listen  to  the  careful  advice ;  it  was  re- 
pugnant to  his  liberal  nature.  But  Miss  Branwell  perse- 
vered ;  urged  economical  motives ;  pressed  on  his  love  for 
his  daughters.  He  gave  way.  Tabby  was  to  be  removed  to 
her  sister'^  and  there  nursed  and  cared  for,  Mr.  Bronte  com- 
ing in  with  his  aid  when  her  own  resources  fell  short.  This? 
decision  was  communicated  to  the  girls.  There  were  symp- 
toms of  a  quiet,  but  sturdy  rebellion,  that  winter  afternoon, 
in  the  small  precincts  of  Haworth  Parsonage.  They  made 
one  unanimous  and  stiff  remonstrance.  Tabby  had  tended 
them  in  their  childhood ;  they,  and  none  other,  should  tend 
her  in  her  infirmity  and  age.  At  tea-time,  they  were  sad 
nd  silent,  and  the  meal  went  away  untouched  by  any  of  the 
three.     So  it  was  at  bi'eakfast ;  they  did  not  waste  many 


THE    SISTEKS   KETUEN   HOME.  liO 

words  on  the  subject,  but  each  word  they  did  utter  was 
weighty.  They  "  struck  "  eating  till  the  resolution  was  re- 
scinded, and  Tabby  was  allowed  to  remain  a  helpless  invalid 
entirely  dependent  upon  them.  Herein  was  the  strong  feel- 
ing of  Duty  being  paramount  to  Pleasure,  which  lay  at  the 
foundation  of  Charlotte's  character,  made  most  apparent; 
for  we  have  seen  how  she  yearned  for  her  friend's  company ; 
but  it  was  to  be  obtained  only  by  shrinking  from  what  she 
esteemed  right,  and  that  she  never  did,  whatever  might  be 
the  sacrifice. 

She  had  another  weight  on  her  mind  this  Christmas.  I 
have  said  that  Dewsbury  Moor  was  low  and  damp,  and  that 
the  air  did  not  agree  with  her,  though  she  herself  was  hardly 
aware  how  much  her  life  there  was  affecting  her  health. 
But  Anne  had  begun  to  suffer  just  before  the  holidays,  and 
Charlotte  watched  over  her  younger  sisters  with  the  jealous 
vigilance  of  some  wild  creature,  that  changes  her  very  nature 
if  danger  threatens  her  young.  Anne  had  a  slight  cough,  a 
pain  at  her  side,  a  difficulty  of  breathing.  Miss  Wooler  con- 
sidered it  as  little  more  than  a  common  cold ;  but  Charlotte 
felt  every  indication  of  incipient  consumption  as  a  stab  at 
her  heart,  remembering  Maria  and  Elizabeth/  whose  places 
once  knew  them,  and  should  know  them  no  more. 

Stung  by  anxiety  for  this  little  sister,  she  upbraided 
Miss  Wooler  for  her  fancied  indifference  to  Anne's  state  of 
health.  Miss  Wooler  felt  these  reproaches  keenly,  and 
wrote  to  Mr.  Bronte  about  them.  He  immediately  sent  for 
his  children,  who  left  Dewsbury  Moor  the  next  day.  Mean- 
while Charlotte  had  resolved  that  Anne  should  never  return 
as  a  pupil,  nor  she  herself  as  a  governess.  But,  just  before 
she  left,  Miss  Wooler  sought  for  the  opportunity  of  an  ex- 
planation of  each  other's  words,  and  the  issue  proved  that 
"  the  falling  out  of  faithful  friends,  renewing  is  of  love.' 


150  LIFE   OF   CIIAELOTTE   BRONTE. 

And  s)  ended  the  first,  last,  and  only  difierence  Charlotte 
ever  had  with  good  and  kind  Miss  Wooler. 

Still  her  heart  had  received  a  shock  in  the  perception 
of  Anne's  delicacy ;  and  all  this  winter  she  watched  over  her 
with  the  longing,  fond  anxiety,  which  is  so  full  of  sudden 
pangs  of  fear 

Miss  Wooler  had  entreated  her  to  return  after  the  holi- 
days, and  she  had  consented.  But,  independently  of  this, 
Emily  had  given  up  her  situation  in  the  Halifax  jchool,  at 
the  expiration  of  six  months  of  arduous  trial,  on  account  of 
her  health,  which  could  only  be  re-established  by  the  bracing 
moorland  air  and  free  life  of  home.  Tabby's  illness  had 
preyed  on  the  family  resources.  I  doubt  whether  Branwell 
was  maintaining  himself  at  this  time.  For  some  unexplained 
reason,  he  had  given  up  the  idea  of  becoming  a  student  of 
painting  at  the  Koyal  Academy,  and  his  prospects  in  life 
were  uncertain,  and  had  yet  to  be  settled.  So  Charlotte  had 
quietly  to  take  up  her  burden  of  teaching  again,  and  return 
to  her  previous  monotonous  life. 

Brave  heart,  ready  to  die  in  harness!  She  went  back 
to  her  work,  and  made  no  complaint,  hoping  to  subdue  the 
weakness  that  was  gaining  ground  upon  her.  About  this 
time,  she  would  turn  sick  and  trembling  at  any  sudden  noise, 
and  could  hardly  repress  her  screams  when  startled.  This 
showed  a  fearful  degree  of  physical  weakness  in  one  who  was 
generally  so  self-controlled ;  and  the  medical  man,  whom  at 
length,  through  Miss  Wooler's  entreaty,  she  was  led  to  con- 
sult, insisted  on  her  return  home.  She  had  led  too  seden- 
tary a  life,  he  said ;  and  the  soft  summer  air,  blowing  round 
her  home,  the  sweet  company  of  those  she  loved,  the  release, 
the  freedom  of  life  in  her  own  family,  were  needed,  to  save 
either  reason  or  life.  So,  as  One  higher  than  she  had  over- 
ruled that  for  a  time  she  might  relax  her  strain,  she  returned 
to   Haworth ;  and  after  a  season  of  utter  quiet,  her  father 


LIVELY   8CENE   AT   IIAWORTII.  151 

*oagIit  for  lier  the  enlivening  society  of  her  two  friends,  Mary 
and  Martha  T.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  following  letter, 
there  is,  I  think,  as  pretty  a  glimpse  of  a  merry  group  of 
young  people  as  need  be ;  and  like  all  descriptions  of  doing, 
as  distinct  from  thinking  or  feeling,  in  letters,  it  saddens  one 
in  proportion  to  the  vivacity  of  the  picture  of  what  was  once 
and  is  now  utterly  swept  away. 

''Haworth,  June  9,  1838. 

"  I  received  your  packet  of  despatches  on  Wednesday ; 
it  was  brought  me  by  Mary  and  Martha,  who  have  been 
staying  at  Ha  worth  for  a  few  days ;  they  leave  us  to-day. 
You  will  be  surprised  at  the  date  of  this  letter.  I  ought  to 
be  at  Dewsbury  Moor,  you  know;  but  I  stayed  as  long  as  1 
was  able,  and  at  length  I  neither  could  nor  dared  stay  any 
longer.  My  health  and  spirits  had  utterly  failed  me,  and 
the  medical  man  whom  I  consulted  enjoined  me,  as  I  valued 
my  life,  to  go  home.  So  home  I  went,  and  the  change  has 
at  once  roused  and  soothed  me  ;  and  I  am  now,  I  trust,  fairly 
in  the  way  to  be  myself  again. 

"  A  calm  and  even  mind  like  yours  cannot  conceive  the 
feelings  of  the  shattered  wretch  who  is  now  writing  to  you, 
when,  after  weeks  of  mental  and  bodily  anguish  not  to  be 
described,  something  like  peace  began  to  dawn  again.  Mary 
is  far  from  well.  She  breathes  short,  has  a  pain  in  her  chest, 
and  frequent  flushings  of  fever.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  agony 
these  symptoms  give  me ;  they  remind  me  too  strongly  of 
my  two  sisters,  whom  no  power  of  medicine  could  save 
Martha  is  now  very  well ;  she  has  kept  in  a  continual  flow 
of  good  humour  during  her  stay  here,  and  has  consequently 
been  very  fascinating 

"  They  are  making  such  a  noise  about  me  I  cannot  write 
any  more.  Mary  is  playing  on  the  piano  ;  Martha  is  chat- 
tering as  fast  as  her  little  tongue  can  run  ;  and  Branwell  is 
standing  before  her,  laughing  at  her  vivacity." 


153  LIFE   OE   ClIAELOTTE   BKONTE. 

Charlotte  grew  mucli  stronger  in  this  quiet,  happy  period 
at  home.  She  paid  occasional  visits  to  her  two  great  friends, 
and  they  in  turn  came  to  Haworth.  At  one  of  their  houses. 
I  suspect,  she  met  with  the  person  to  whom  the  following 
letter  refers ;  some  one  having  a  slight  resemblance  to  the 
character  of  "  St.  John,"  in  the  last  volume  of  '^  Jane  Eyre," 
and,  like  him,  in  holy  orders. 

^'  3Iarch  12,  1839. 
..."  I  had  a  kindly  leaning  towards  him,  because  he  is 
an  amiable  and  well-disposed  man.  Yet  I  had  not,  and 
could  not  have,  that  intense  attachment  which  would  make 
me  willing  to  die  for  him ;  and  if  ever  I  marry,  it  must  be 
in  that  light  of  adoration  that  I  will  regard  my  husband. 
Ten  to  one  I  shall  never  have  the  chance  again ;  but  nHm- 
porte.  Moreover,  I  was  aware  that  he  knew  so  little  of  me 
he  could  hardly  be  conscious  to  whom  he  was  writing.  Why ! 
it  would  startle  him  to  see  me  in  my  natural  home  charac- 
ter ;  he  would  think  I  was  a  wild,  romantic,  enthusiast  indeed. 
I  could  not  sit  all  day  long  making  a  grave  face  before  my  hus- 
band. I  would  laugh,  and  satirize,  and  say  whatever  came 
into  my  head  first.  And  if  he  were  a  clever  man,  and 
loved  me,  the  whole  world,  weighed  in  the  balance  against 
his  smallest  wish,  should  be  light  as  air." 

So  that — her  first  proposal  of  marriage — was  quietly  de- 
clined and  put  on  one  side.  Matrimony  did  not  enter  into 
the  scheme  of  her  life,  but  good,  sound,  earnest  labour  did ; 
the  question,  however,  was  as  yet  undecided  in  what  direction 
she  should  employ  her  forces.  She  had  been  discouraged  in 
literature ;  her  eyes  failed  her  in  the  minute  kind  of  drawing 
which  she  practised  when  she  wanted  to  express  an  idea , 
teaching  seemed  to  her  at  this  time,  as  it  does  to  most  women 
at  all  times,  the  only  way  of   earning  an  independent  liveli 


ANKE   LEAVES   HOME.  153 

hood.  But  neither  she  nor  her  sisters  were  naturally  fond 
of  children.  The  hieroglyphics  of  childhood  were  an  un- 
known language  to  them,  for  they  had  never  been  much  with 
those  younger  than  themselves.  I  am  inclined  to  think,  too, 
that  they  had  not  the  happy  knack  of  imparting  information, 
which  seems  to  be  a  separate  gift  from  the  faculty  of  acquir- 
ing it ;  a  kind  of  sympathetic  tact,  which  instinctively  per- 
ceives the  difficulties  that  impede  comprehension  in  a  child's 
mind,  and  that  yet  are  too  vague  and  unformed  for  it,  with 
its  half-developed  powers  of  expression,  to  explain  by  words. 
Consequently,  teaching  very  young  children  was  anything  but 
a  ^^  delightful  task"  to  the  three  Bronte  sisters.  With  older 
girls,  verging  on  womanhood,  they  might  have  done  better, 
especially  if  these  had  any  desire  for  improvement.  But  the 
education  which  the  village  clergyman's  daughters  had  re- 
ceived, did  not  as  yet  qualify  them  to  undertake  the  charge 
of  advanced  pupils.  They  knew  but  little  French,  and  were 
not  proficients  in  music ;  I  doubt  whether  Charlotte  could 
play  at  all.  But  they  were  all  strong  again,  and,  at  any 
rate,  Charlotte  and  Anne  must  put  their  shoulders  to  the 
wheel.  One  daughter  was  needed  at  home,  to  stay  with  Mr. 
Bronte  and  Miss  Branwell;  to  be  the  youDg  and  active 
member  in  a  household  of  four,  whereof  three — the  father, 
the  aunt,  and  faithful  Tabby — were  past  middle  age.  And 
Emily,  who  suffered  and  drooped  more  than  her  sisters  when 
away  from  Haworth,  was  the  one  appointed  to  remain.  Anne 
was  the  first  to  meet  with  a  situation. 

''April  IMh,  1839 
**  I  could  not  write  to  you  in  tne  week  you  requested,  as 
about  that  time  we  were  very  busy  in  preparing  for  Anne's 
departure.  Poor  child  !  she  left  us  last  Monday ;  no  one 
went  with  her ;  it  was  her  own  wish  that  she  might  be  allowed 
to  go  alone,  as  she  thought  she  could  manage  better,  and 


15-4  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

summon  more  courage,  if  thrown  entirely  upon  her  own  ro 
sources.  We  have  had  one  letter  from  her  since  she  went 
She  expresses  herself  very  well  satisfied,  and  says  that  Mr& 

is  extremely  kind ;  the  two  eldest  children  alone  ara 

under  her  care,  the  rest  are  confined  to  the  nursery,  with 
which  and  its  occupants  she  has  nothing  to  do.  .  .  .  I 
hope  she'll  do.  You  would  be  astonished  what  a  sensible, 
clever  letter  she  writes ;  it  is  only  the  talking  part  that  I 

fear.     But  I  do  seriously  apprehend  that   Mrs.  will 

sometimes  conclude  that  she  has  a  natural  impediment  in  her 
speech.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  as  yet  *  wanting  a  situation' 
like  a  housemaid  out  of  place.  By  the  way,  I  have  lately 
discovered  I  have  quite  a  talent  for  cleaning,  sweeping  up 
hearths,  dusting  rooms,  making  beds,  &c. ;  so,  if  everything 
else  fails,  I  can  turn  my  hand  to  that,  if  anybody  will  give 
me  good  wages  for  little  labor.  I  won't  be  a  cook ;  I  hate 
cooking.  I  won't  be  a  nurserymaid,  nor  a  lady's  maid,  far 
less  a  lady's  companion,  or  a  mantua-maker,  or  a  straw- 
bonnet  maker,  or  a  taker-in  of  plain  work,  I  won't  be  any- 
thing but  a  housemaid.  .  .  .  .  With  regard  to  my  visit 
to  G.,  I  have  as  yet  received  no  invitation ;  but  if  I  should 
be  asked,  though  I  should  feel  it  a  great  act  of  self-denial  to 
refuse,  yet  I  have  almost  made  up  my  mind  to  do  so,  though 
the  society  of  the  Ts  is  one  of  the  most  rousing  pleasures  I 
have  ever  known.     Good-bye,  my  darling  E.,  &c. 

"  P.  S. — Strike  out  that  word  ^  darling ; '  it  is  humbug. 
AYhere's  the  use  of  protestations  ?  We've  known  each  other, 
and  liked  each  other,  a  good  while  ;  that's  enough." 

Not  many  weeks  after  this  was  written,  Charlotte  also 
became  engaged  as  a  governess.  I  intend  carefully  to  abstain 
from  introducing  the  names  of  any  living  people,  respecting 
whom  I  may  have  to  tell  unpleasant  truths,  or  to  quote  severe 


AN   ACCIDENT.  155 

remarks  from  Miss  Bronte's  letters ;  but  it  is  necessary  that 
the  difficulties  she  had  to  encounter  in  her  various  phases  of 
life,  should  be  fairly  and  frankly  made  known,  before  the 
force  "  of  what  was  resisted  "  can  be  at  all  understood.  I 
was  once  speaking  to  her  about  "  Agnes  Grey" — the  novel 
in  which  her  sister  Anne  pretty  literally  describes  her  own 
experience  as  a  governess — and  alluding  more  particularly 
to  the  account  of  the  stoning  of  the  little  nestlings  in  the 
presence  of  the  parent  birds.  She  said  that  none  but  those 
who  had  been  in  the  position  of  a  governess  could  ever  rea- 
lize the  dark  side  of  "  respectable"  human  nature  ;  under  no 
great  temptation  to  crime,  but  daily  giving  way  to  selfish- 
ness and  ill-temper,  till  its  conduct  towards  those  dependent 
on  it  sometimes  amounts  to  a  tyranny  of  which  one  would 
rather  be  the  victim  than  the  inflicter.  We  can  only  trust 
in  such  cases  that  the  employers  err  rather  from  a  density 
of  perception  and  an  absence  of  sympathy,  than  from  any 
natural  cruelty  of  disposition.  Among  several  things  of  the 
same  kind,  which  I  well  remember,  she  told  me  what  had 
once  occurred  to  herself.  She  had  been  entrusted  with  the 
care  of  a  little  boy,  three  or  four  years  old,  during  the  ab- 
sence of  his  parents  on  a  day's  excursion,  and  particularly 
enjomed  to  keep  him  out  of  the  stable-yard.  His  elder 
brother,  a  lad  of  eight  or  nine,  and  not  a  pupil  of  Miss 
Bronte's,  tempted  the  little  fellow  into  the  forbidden  place. 
She  followed,  and  tried  to  induce  him  to  come  away ;  but, 
instigated  by  his  brother,  he  began  throwing  stones  at  her, 
and  one  of  them  hit  her  so  severe  a  blow  on  the  temple  that 
the  lads  were  alarmed  into  obedience.  The  next  day,  in  full 
family  conclave,  the  mother  asked  Miss  Bronte  what  occa^ 
sioned  the  mark  on  her  forehead.  She  simply  replied,  "  An 
accident,  ma'am,"  and  no  further  inquiry  was  made ;  but  the 
children  (both  brothers  and  sisters)  had  been  present,  and 
honoured  her  for  not  ^^  telling  tales."     From  that  time,  she 


156  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

began  to  gain  influence  over  all,  more  or  less,  according  to 
their  different  characters ;  and  as  she  insensibly  gained  theii 
affection,  her  own  interest  in  them  was  increasing.  But  one 
day,  at  the  children's  dinner,  the  small  truant  of  the  stable 
yard,  in  a  little  demonstrative  gush,  said,  putting  his  hand  in 
hers,  "  I  love  'ou.  Miss  Bronte."  Whereupon,  the  mother 
exclaimed,  before  all  the  children,  ^'  Love  the  governess^  my 
dear!" 

The  family  into  which  she  first  entered  was,  I  believe, 
that  of  a  wealthy  Yorkshire  manufacturer.  The  following 
extracts  from  her  correspondence  at  this  time  will  show  how 
painfully  the  restraint  of  her  new  mode  of  life  pressed  upon 
her.  The  first  is  from  a  letter  to  Emily,  beginning  with  one 
of  the  tender  expressions  in  which,  in  spite  of  "  humbug," 
she  indulged  herself.  "  Mine  dear  love,"  "  Mine  bonnie 
love,"  are  her  terms  of  address  to  this  beloved  sister. 

'' June  Sth,  1S39. 
*'  I  have  striven  hard  to  be  pleased  with  my  new  situation. 
The  country,  the  house  and  the  grounds  are,  as  I  have  said, 
divine ;  but,  alack-a-day,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  seeing  all 
beautiful  around  you — pleasant  woods,  white  paths,  green 
lawns,  and  blue  sunshiny  sky — and  not  having  a  free  moment 
or  a  free  thought  left  to  enjoy  them.  The  children  are  con- 
stantly with  me.  As  for  correcting  them,  I  quickly  found 
that  was  out  of  the  question ;  they  are  to  do  as  they  like. 
A  complaint  to  the  mother  only  brings  black  looks  on  my- 
self, and  unjust,  partial  excuses  to  screen  the  children.  I 
have  tried  that  plan  once,  and  succeeded  so  notably,  I  shall 

try  no  more.     I  said  in  my  last  letter  that  Mrs. did  not 

know  me.  I  now  begin  to  find  she  does  not  intend  to  know 
mc ;  and  she  cares  nothing  about  me,  except  to  contrive  how 
the  greatest  possible  quantity  of  labour  may  be  got  out  of 
me ,  and  to  that  end   she  overwhelms  me  with  oceans  of 


IIER   EXPERIENCES   AS   A   GOVERNESS.  15'i 

needlework ;  yards  of  cambric  to  hem,  muslin  nightcaps  tc 
make,  and,  above  all  things,  dolls  to  dress.  I  do  not  think 
she  likes  me  at  all,  because  I  can't  help  being  shy  in  such 
an  entirely  novel  scene,  surrounded  as  I  have  hitherto  been 

by  strange  and  constantly  changing  faces I  used  to 

think  I  should  like  to  be  in  the  stir  of  grand  folks'  society; 
but  I  have  had  enough  of  it — it  is  dreary  work  to  look  on 
and  listen.  I  see  more  clearly  than  I  have  ever  done  before, 
that  a  private  governess  has  no  existence,  is  not  considered 
as  a  living  rational  being,   except   as  connected  with  the 

wearisome  duties  she  has  to  fulfil One  of  the 

pleasantest  afternoons  I  have  spent  here — indeed,   the  only 

one  at  all  pleasant — was  when  Mr. walked  out  with  his 

children,  and  I  had  orders  to  follow  a  little  behind.  As  he 
strolled  on  through  his  fields,  with  his  magnificent  Newfound- 
land dog  at  his  side,  he  looked  very  like  what  a  frank,  weal- 
thy. Conservative  gentleman  ought  to  be.  He  spoke  freely 
and  unaff'ectedly  to  the  people  he  met,  and,  though  he  in- 
dulged his  children  and  allowed  them  to  tease  himself  far 
too  much,  he  would  not  sufi'er  them  grossly  to  insult 
others." 

(written    in    pencil    to    a    FllIEND.) 

'July,  1839. 
"  I  cannot  procure  ink,  without  going  into  the  drawing* 

room,  where  I  do  not  wish  to  go I  should  have 

written  to  you  long  since,  and  told  you  every  detail  of  the 
utterly  new  scene  into  which  I  have  lately  been  cast,  had  1 
not  been  daily  expecting  a  letter  from  yourself,  and  wonder- 
ing and  lamenting  that  you  did  not  write  ;  for  you  will  re- 
member it  was  your  turn.  I  must  not  bother  you  too  much 
with  my  sorrows,  of  which,  I  fear,  you  have  heard  an  exag- 
gerated account.     If  you  were  near  me,  perhaps  E  might  bo 


158  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BEONTE. 

tempted  to  tell  you  all,  to  grow  egotistical,  and  pour  out  the 
long  history  of  a  private  governess's  trials  and  crosses  in  her 
first  situation.  As  it  is,  I  will  only  ask  you  to  imagine  the 
miseries  of  a  reserved  wretch  like  me,  thrown  at  once  into 
the  midst  of  a  large  family — ^proud  as  peacocks  and  wealthy 
as  Jews — at  a  time  when  they  were  particularly  gay — when 
the  house  was  filled  with  company — all  strangers — ^people 
whose  faces  I  had  never  seen  before.  In  this  state  I  had 
charge  given  me  of  a  set  of  pampered,  spoilt,  turbulent 
children,  whom  I  was  expected  constantly  to  amuse,  as  well 
as  to  instruct.  I  soon  found  that  the  constant  demand  on 
my  stock  of  animal  spirits  reduced  them  to  the  lowest  state 
of  exhaustion ;  at  times  I  felt — and,  I  suppose,  seemed — 
depressed.    To  my  astonishment,  I  was  taken  to  task  on  the 

subject   by  Mrs. ,  with  a  sternness  of  manner  and  a 

harshness  of  language  scarcely  credible;  like  a  fool,  I  cried 
most  bitterly.  I  could  not  help  it ;  my  spirits  quite  failed 
me  at  first.  I  thought  I  had  done  my  best — strained  every 
nerve  to  please  her ;  and  to  be  treated  in  that  way,  merely 
because  I  was  shy  and  sometimes  melancholy,  was  too  bad. 
At  first  I  was  for  giving  all  up  and  going  home.  But,  after 
a  little  reflection,  I  determined  to  summon  what  energy  I 
had,  and  to  weather  the  storm.  I  said  to  myself,  *  I  have 
never  yet  quitted  a  place  without  gaining  a  friend ;  adversity 
is  a  good  school ;  the  poor  are  born  to  labour,  and  the  de- 
pendent to  endure. '  I  resolved  to  be  patient,  to  command 
my  feelings,  and  to  take  what  came ;  the  ordeal,  I  reflected, 
would  not  last  many  weeks,  and  I  trusted  it  would  do  me  good, 
I  recollected  the  fable  of  the  willow  and  the  oak ;  I  bent 
quietly,  and  now,  I  trust,  the  storm  is    blowing    over  me. 

Mrs. is  generally  considered  an  agreeable  woman ;  so 

she  is,  I  doubt  not,  in  general  society.  Her  health  is  sound, 
her  animal  spirits  good,  consequently  she  is  cheerful  in  com- 
pany ;  but,  oh  !  does  this  compensate  for  the  absence  of  every 


A   LEITER   FROM   HOME.  155 

fine  feeling — of  every  gentle  and  delicate  sentiment  ?  She 
behaves  somewhat  more  civilly  to  me  now  than  she  did  at 
first,  and  the  children  are  a  little  more  manageable ;  but  she 
does  not  know  my  character,  and  she  does  not  wish  to  know 
it.  I  have  never  had  five  minutes'  conversation  with  her 
since  I  came,  except  while  she  was  scolding  me.  I  have  no 
wish  to  be  pitied,  except  by  yourself;  if  I  were  talking  to 
you  I  could  tell  you  much  more." 

(to    EMILY,    ABOUT   THIS    TIME.) 

'^  Mine  bonnie  love,  I  was  as  glad  of  your  letter  as  tongue 
can  express :  it  is  a  real,  genuine  pleasure  to  hear  from  home ; 
a  thing  to  be  saved  till  bed-time,  when  one  has  a  moment's 
quiet  and  rest  to  enjoy  it  thoroughly.  Write  whenever  you 
can.  I  could  like  to  be  at  home.  I  could  like  to  work  in 
a  mill.  I  could  like  to  feel  some  mental  liberty.  I  could 
like  this  weight  of  restraint  to  be  taken  ofi*.  But  the  holi- 
days will  come.     Coraggio." 

Her  temporary  engagement  in  this  uncongenial  family 
ended  in  the  July  of  this  year ;  not  before  the  constant  strain 
upon  her  spirits  and  strength  had  again  affected  her  health  : 
but  when  this  delicacy  became  apparent  in  palpitations  and 
shortness  of  breathing,  it  was  treated  as  affectation — as  a 
phase  of  imaginary  indisposition,  which  could  be  dissipated 
by  a  good  scolding.  She  had  been  brought  up  rather  in  a 
school  of  Spartan  endurance  than  in  one  of  maudlin  self-in- 
dulgence, and  could  bear  many  a  pain  and  relinquish  many  a 
hope  in  silence. 

After  she  had  been  at  home  about  a  week,  a  proposal  was 
made  to  her  to  accompany  her  friend  in  some  little  excursion, 
having  pleasure  alone  for  its  object.  She  caught  at  the  idea 
most  eagerly  at  first ;  but  her  hope  stood  still,  waned,  and 
had  almost  disappeared  before,  after  many  delays,  it  was 


160  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

realized.  In  its  fulfilment  at  last,  it  was  a  favourable  spcci 
men  of  many  a  similar  air-bubble  dancing  before  her  eyes  ic 
her  brief  career,  in  which  stern  realities,  rather  than  plea- 
Rures,  formed  the  leading  incidents. 

"  Jidy  2Qth,  1839. 

"  Your  proposal  has  almost  driven  me  ^  clean  daft ' —  if 
you  don't  understand  that  ladylike  expression,  you  must  ask 
me  what  it  means  when  I  see  you.  The  fact  is,  an  excursion 
with  you  anywhere, — whether  to  Cleathorpe  or  Canada,—- ^ 
just  by  ourselves,  would  be  to  me  most  delightful.  I  should 
indeed,  like  to  go  ;  but  I  can't  get  leave  of  absence  for  longer 
than  a  week,  and  I'm  afraid  that  would  not  suit  you — must  I 
then  give  it  up  entirely  ?  I  feel  as  if  I  could  not ;  I  never 
had  such  a  chance  of  enjoyment  before;  I  do  want  to  see 
you  and  talk  to  you,  and  be  with  you.  When  do  you  wish 
to  go  ?  Could  I  meet  you  at  Leeds  ?  To  take  a  gig  from 
Haworth  to  B.,  would  be  to  me  a  very  serious  increase  of 
expense,  and  I  happen  to  be  very  low  in  cash.  Oh !  rich 
people  seem  to  have  many  pleasures  at  their  command  which 
we  are  debarred  from  !     However,  no  repining. 

"  Say  when  you  go,  and  I  shall  be  able  in  my  answer  to 
say  decidedly  whether  I  can  accompany  you  or  not.  I  must 
— I  will —  I'm  set  upon  it — I'll  be  obstinate  and  bear  down 
all  opposition." 

"  P.  S.— Since  writing  the  above,  I  find  that  aunt  and 
papa  have  determined  to  go  to  Liverpool  for  a  fortnight, 
and  take  us  all  with  them.  It  is  stipulated,  however,  that  I 
should  give  up  the  Cleathorpe  scheme.    I  yield  reluctantly." 

I  fancy  that,  about  this  time,  Mr.  Bronte  found  it  necessary, 
either  from  his  failing  health  or  the  increased  populousnesa 
of  the  parish,  to  engage  the  assistance  of  a  curate.  At  least, 
it  is  in  a  letter  written  this  summer  that  I  find  mention  of 


ADVENT   OF   THE   FIRST    CURATE.  161 

tlie  first  of  a  succession  of  curates,  who  henceforward  re- 
volved around  Haworth  Parsonage,  and  made  an  impression  on 
the  mind  of  one  of  its  inmates  which  she  has  conveyed  pretty 
distinctly  to  the  world.  The  Haworth  curate  brought  hia 
clerical  friends  and  neighbours  about  the  place,  and  for  a 
time  the  incursions  of  these,  near  the  parsonage  tea  time, 
formed  occurrences  by  which  the  quietness  of  the  life  there 
was  varied,  sometimes  pleasantly,  sometimes  disagreeably. 
The  little  adventure  recorded  at  the  end  of  the  following 
letter  is  unusual  in  the  lot  of  most  women,  and  is  a  testi- 
mony in  this  case  to  the  unusual  power  of  attraction — 
though  so  plain  in  feature — which  Charlotte  possessed,  when 
she  let  herself  go  in  the  happiness  and  freedom  of  home. 

"  August  Uh,  1839. 
"  The  Liverpool  journey  is  yet  a  matter  of  talk,  a  sort 
of  castle  in  the  air ;  but,  between  you  and  me,  I  fancy  it 
is  very  doubtful  whether  it  will  ever  assume  a  more  solid 
shape.  Aunt — like  many  other  elderly  people — likes  to  talk 
of  such  things ;  but  when  it  comes  to  putting  them  into 
actual  execution,  she  rather  falls  off.  Such  being  the  case 
I  think  you  and  I  had  better  adhere  to  our  first  plan  of  going 
somewhere  together,  independently  of  other  people.  I  have 
got  leave  to  accompany  you  for  a  week — at  the  utmost  a 
fortnight — but  no  more.  Where  do  you  wish  to  go  ?  Bur- 
lington, I  should  think,  from  what  M.  says,  would  be  as 
eligible  a  place  as  any.  When  do  you  set  off  ?^  Arrange  all 
these  things  according  to  your  convenience ;  I  shall  start  no 
objections.  The  idea  of  seeing  the  sea — of  being  near  it-^ 
watching  its  changes  by  sunrise,  sunset,  moonlight,  and 
noon-day — in  calm,  perhaps  in  storm — fills  and  satisfies  my 
mind.  I  shall  be  discontented  at  nothing.  And  then  I  am 
not  to  be  with  a  set  of  people  with  whom  I  have  nothing  in 
common — who  would  be  nuisances  and  bores ;  but  with  you, 


162  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE    BRONTE 

whom  I  like  and  know,  and  who  know  me.     I  have  an  odd 
circumstance  to  relate  to  you :  prepare  for  a  hearty  laugh  I 

The   other  day,  Mr. ,  a  vicar,  came  to  spend  the  day 

with  us,  bringing  with  him  his  own  curate.  The  latter  gen- 
tleman, by  name  Mr.  B.,  is  a  young  Irish  clergyman,  fresh 
from  Dublin  University.  It  was  the  first  time  we  had  any 
of  us  seen  him,  but,  however,  after  the  manner  of  his  coun- 
trymen, he  soon  made  himself  at  home.  His  character 
quickly  appeared  in  his  conversation ;  witty,  lively,  ardent, 
clever  too ;  but  deficient  in  the  dignity  and  discretion  of  an 
Englishman.  At  home,  you  know,  I  talk  with  ease,  and  am 
never  shy — ^never  weighed  down  and  oppressed  by  that  miser- 
able mauvaise  honte  which  torments  and  constrains  me 
elsewhere.  So  I  conversed  with  this  Irishman,  and  laughed 
at  his  jests ;  and,  though  I  saw  faults  in  his  character,  ex- 
cused them  because  of  the  amusement  his  originality  afforded. 
I  cooled  a  little,  indeed,  and  drew  in  towards  the  latter  part 
of  the  evening,  because  he  began  to  season  his  conversation 
with  something  of  Hibernian  flattery,  which  I  did  not  quite 
relish.  However,  they  went  away,  and  no  more  was  thought 
about  them.  A  few  days  after  I  got  a  letter,  the  direction  of 
which  puzzled  me,  it  being  in  a  hand  I  was  not  accustomed  to 
see.  Evidently,  it  was  neither  from  you  nor  Mary,  my  only 
correspondents.  Having  opened  and  read  it,  it  proved  to  be 
a  declaration  of  attachment  and  proposal  of  matrimony,  ex- 
pressed in  the  ardent  language  of  the  sapient  young  Irishman ! 
I  hope  you  are  laughing  heartily.  This  is  not  like  one  of 
my  adventures,  is  it  ?  It  more  nearly  resembles  Martha's. 
I  am  certainly  doomed  to  be  an  old  maid.  Never  mind, 
made  up  my  mind  to  that  fate  ever  since  I  was  twelve 
years  old. 

"  Well !  thought  I,  I  have  heard  of  love  at  first  sight, 
but  this  beats  all !  I  leave  you  to  guess  what  my  answer 
would  be,  convinced  that  you  will  not  do  me  the  injustice  of 
guessing  wrong." 


PKEPARING  FOR  A  JOURNEY.  163 

On  the  14tli  of  August,  she  still  writes  from  Haworth  : — 

"  I  have  in  vain  packed  my  box,  and  prepared  everything 
for  our  anticipated  journey.  It  so  happens  that  I  can  get 
no  conveyance  this  week  or  the  next.  The  only  gig  let  out 
to  hire  in  Haworth,  is  at  Harrogate,  and  likely  to  remain 
there,  for  aught  I  can  hear.  Papa  decidedly  objects  to  my 
going  by  the  coach,  and  walking  to  B.,  though  I  am  sure  I 
could  manage  it.  Aunt  exclaims  against  the  weather,  and 
the  roads,  and  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  so  I  am  in  a  fix, 
and,  what  is  worse,  so  are  you.  On  reading  over,  for  the 
second  or  third  time,  your  last  letter  (which,  by  the  by,  was 
written  in  such  hieroglyphics  that,  at  the  first  hasty  perusal, 
I  could  hardly  make  out  two  consecutive  words),  I  find  you 
intimate  that  if  I  leave  this  journey  till  Thursday  I  shall  be 
too  late.  I  grieve  that  I  should  have  so  inconvenienced 
you ;  but  I  need  not  talk  of  either  Friday  or  Saturday  now, 
for  I  rather  imagine  there  is  small  chance  of  my  ever  going 
at  all.  The  elders  of  the  house  have  never  cordially  acqui- 
esced in  the  measure ;  and  now  that  impediments  seem  to 
start  up  at  every  step,  opposition  grows  more  open.  Papa, 
indeed,  would  willingly  indulge  me,  but  this  very  kindness 
of  his  makes  me  doubt  whether  I  ought  to  draw  upon  it ;  so, 
though  I  could  battle  out  aunt's  discontent,  I  yield  to  papa's 
indulgence.  He  does  not  say  so,  but  I  know  he  would  rather 
I  stayed  at  home ;  and  aunt  meant  well  too,  I  dare  say,  but 
I  am  provoked  that  she  reserved  the  expression  of  her  de- 
cided disapproval  till  all  was  settled  between  you  and  myself 
Reckon  on  me  no  more  ;  leave  me  out  in  your  calculations ; 
perhaps  I  ought,  in  the  beginning,  to  have  had  prudence  suf- 
ficient to  shut  my  eyes  against  such  a  prospect  of  pleasure,  so 
as  to  deny  myself  the  hope  of  it.  Be  as  angry  as  you  please 
with  me  for  disappointing  you.  I  did  not  intend  it,  and 
have  only  one  thing  more  to  say — if  you  do  not  go  imme- 


164  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BROKTE. 

d lately  to  tlie  sea,  will  you  come  to  see  us  at  Haworth  ? 
This  invitation  is  not  mine  only,  but  papa's  and  aunt's." 

However,  a  little  more  patience,  a  little  more  delay,  and 
she  enjoyed  the  pleasure  she  had  wished  for  so  much.  She 
and  her  friend  went  to  Easton  for  a  fortnight  in  the  latter 
part  of  September.  It  was  here  she  received  her  first  im 
pressions  of  the  sea. 

"  Oct  2ith. 
*^  Have  you  forgotten  the  sea  by  this  time,  E.  ?  Is  it 
grown  dim  in  your  mind  ?  Or  you  can  still  see  it,  dark,  blue, 
and  green,  and  foam-white,  and  hear  it  roaring  roughly  when 
the  wind  is  high,  or  rushing  softly  when  it  is  calm.  ...  I 
am  as  well  as  need  be,  and  very  fat.  I  think  of  Easton  very 
often,  and  of  worthy  Mr.  H.,  and  his  kind-hearted  help-mate, 

and  of  our  pleasant  walks  to  H Wood,  and  to  Boynton, 

our  merry  evenings,  our  romps  with  little  Hancheon,  &c., 
&c.  If  we  both  live,  this  period  of  our  lives  will  long  be  a 
theme  for  pleasant  recollection.  Did  you  chance,  in  your 
letter  to  Mr.  H.,  to  mention  my  spectacles  ?  I  am  sadly 
inconvenienced  by  the  want  of  them.  I  can  neither  read, 
write,  nor  draw  with  comfort   in  their  absence.      I  hope 

Madame  won't  refuse  to  give  them  up Excuse  the 

brevity  of  this  letter,  for  I  have  been  drawing  all  day,  and 
my  eyes  are  so  tired  it  is  quite  a  labour  to  write." 

But,  as  the  vivid  remembrance  of  this  pleasure  died  away, 
an  accident  occurred  to  make  the  actual  duties  of  life  press 
somewhat  heavily  for  a  time. 

'' December  21st,  1S'60. 
^'We  are  at  present,  and   have  been   during   the   last 
month,  rather  busy,  as,  for  that  space  of  time,  we  have  been 


HER   AVERSION   FOR    A   GOVERNESS    LIFE.  165 

without  a  servant,  except  a  little  girl  to  run  errands.  Poor 
Tabby  became  so  lame  that  she  was  at  length  obliged  to 
leave  us.  She  is  residing  with  her  sister,  in  a  little  house 
of  her  own,  which  she  bought  with  her  savings  a  year  or  two 
since.  She  is  very  comfortable,  and  wants  nothing  ;  as  she 
is  near,  we  see  her  very  often.  In  the  mean  time,  Emily 
and  I  are  sufficiently  busy,  as  you  may  suppose  I  manage 
the  ironing,  and  keep  the  rooms  clean;  Emily  does  the 
baking,  and  attends  to  the  kitchen.  We  are  such  odd  ani- 
mals, that  we  prefer  this  mode  of  contrivance  to  having  a 
new  face  amongst  us.  Besides,  we  do  not  despair  of  Tabby's 
return,  and  she  shall  not  be  supplanted  by  a  stranger  in  her 
absence.  I  excited  aunt's  wrath  very  much  by  burning  the 
clothes,  the  first  time  I  attempted  to  iron ;  but  I  do  better 
now.  Human  feelings  are  queer  things  ;  I  am  much  happier 
black-leading  the  stoves,  making  the  beds,  and  sweeping  the 
floors  at  home,  than  I  should  be  living  like  a  fine  lady  any- 
where else.  I  must  indeed  drop  my  subscription  to  the 
Jews,  because  I  have  no  money  to  keep  it  up.  I  ought  to 
have  announced  this  intention  to  you  before,  but  I  quite  for- 
got I  was  a  subscriber.  I  intend  to  force  myself  to  take  an- 
other situation  when  I  can  get  one,  though  I  hate  and  ahhor 
the  very  thoughts  of  governess-ship.  But  I  must  do  it; 
and,  therefore,  I  heartily  wish  I  could  hear  of  a  family  whero 
they  need  such  a  commodity  as  a  governess" 


166  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONXfi. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

The  year  1840  found  all  the  Brontes  living  at  Lome,  except 
Anne.  I  am  not  aware  for  what  reason  the  plan  of  sending 
Branwell  to  study  at  the  Royal  Academy  was  relinquished ; 
probably,  it  was  found,  on  inquiry,  that  the  expenses  of  such 
a  life  were  greater  than  his  father's  slender  finances  could 
afford,  even  with  the  help  which  Charlotte's  labours  at  Misa 
Wooler's  gave,  by  providing  for  Anne's  board  and  education. 
I  gather  from  what  I  have  heard,  that  Branwell  must  have 
been  severely  disappointed  when  the  plan  fell  through.  His 
talents  were  certainly  very  brilliant,  and  of  this  he  was  fully 
conscious,  and  fervently  desired,  by  their  use,  either  in  writing 
or  drawing,  to  make  himself  a  name.  At  the  same  time,  he 
would  probably  have  found  his  strong  love  of  pleasure  and 
irregular  habits  a  great  impediment  in  his  path  to  fame ;  but 
these  blemishes  in  his  character  were  only  additional  reasons 
why  he  yearned  after  a  London  life,  in  which  he  imagined 
he  could  obtain  every  stimulant  to  his  already  vigorous  intel- 
lect, while  at  the  same  time  he  would  have  a  license  of  action 
to  be  found  only  in  crowded  cities.  Thus  his  whole  nature 
was  attracted  towards  the  metropolis;  and  many  an  hour 
must  he  have  spent  poring  over  the  map  of  London,  to  judge 
from  an  anecdote  which  has  been  told  me.  Some  traveller 
for  a  London  house  of  business  came  to  Haworth  for  a  night ; 
and,  according  to  the  unfortunate  habit  of  the  place,  the  bril- 
liant "  Patrick  "  (so  the  villagers  always  called  him,  while  in 


BKAJSWELL   BRONTE    STILL   AT  HOME.  167 

his  own  family  he  was  Branwell),  was  sent  for  to  the  inn,  to 
beguile  the  evening  by  his  intellectual  conversation  and  his 
flashes  of  wit.  They  began  to  talk  of  London ;  of  the  habits 
and  ways  of  life  there ;  of  the  places  of  amusement ;  and 
Branwell  informed  the  Londoner  of  one  or  two  short  cuts 
from  point  to  point,  up  narrow  lanes,  or  back  streets ;  and 
it  was  only  towards  the  end  of  the  evening  that  the  traveller 
discovered,  from  Branwell's  voluntary  confession,  that  his 
companion  had  never  set  foot  in  London  at  all. 

At  this  time,  the  young  man  seemed  to  have  his  fate  in 
his  own  hands.  He  was  full  of  noble  impulses,  as  well  as  of 
extraordinary  gifts;  not  accustomed  to  resist  temptation,  it 
is  true,  from  any  higher  motive  than  strong  family  affection, 
but  showing  so  much  power  of  attachment  to  all  about  him 
that  they  took  pleasure  in  believing  that,  after  a  time,  he 
would  "  right  himself,"  and  that  they  should  have  pride  and 
delight  in  the  use  he  would  then  make  of  his  splendid  talents. 
His  aunt  especially  made  him  her  great  favourite.  There 
are  always  peculiar  trials  in  the  life  of  an  only  boy  in  a  family 
of  girls.  He  is  expected  to  act  a  part  in  life ;  to  c?o,  while 
they  are  only  to  he;  and  the  necessity  of  their  giving  way  to 
him  in  some  things,  is  too  often  exaggerated  into  their  giving 
way  to  him  in  all,  and  thus  rendering  him  utterly  selfish. 
In  the  family  about  whom  I  am  writing,  while  the  rest  were 
almost  ascetic  in  their  habits,  Branwell  was  allowed  to  grow 
up  self-indulgent ;  but,  in  early  youth,  his  power  of  attract- 
ing and  attaching  people  was  so  great,  that  few  came  in  con- 
tact with  him  who  were  not  so  much  dazzled  by  him  as  to 
be  desirous  of  gratifying  whatever  wishes  he  expressed.  Of 
course,  he  was  careful  enough  not  to  reveal  anything  before 
his  father  and  sisters  of  the  pleasures  he  indulged  in ;  but 
his  tone  of  thought  and  conversation  became  gradually 
coarser,  and,  for  a  time,  his  sisters  tried  to  persuade  them- 
Beives  that  such  coarseness  was  a  part  of  manliness,  and  to 


163  LIFE    OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BKONTE. 

blind  themselves  by  love  to  the  fact  that  Branwell  was  worse 
than  other  young  men.  At  present,  though  he  had,  they 
were  aware,  fallen  into  some  errors,  the  exact  nature  of  which 
they  avoided  knowing,  still  he  was  their  hope  and  their  dar- 
ling ;  their  pride,  who  should  some  time  bring  great  glory  to 
the  name  of  Bronte. 

He  and  his  sister  Charlotte  were  both  slight  and  small 
of  stature,  while  the  other  two  were  of  taller  and  larger 
make.  I  have  seen  BranwelPs  profile;  it  is  what  would  be 
generally  esteemed  very  handsome ;  the  forehead  is  massive, 
the  eye  well  set,  and  the  expression  of  it  fine  and  intellectual ; 
the  nose  too  is  good ;  but  there  are  coarse  lines  about  the 
mouth,  and  the  lips,  though  of  handsome  shape,  are  loose  and 
thick,  indicating  self-indulgence,  while  the  slightly  retreating 
chin  conveys  an  idea  of  weakness  of  will.  His  hair  and  com- 
plexion were  sandy.  He  had  enough  of  Irish  blood  in  him 
to  make  his  manners  frank  and  genial,  with  a  kind  of  natural 
gallantry  about  them.  In  a  fragment  of  one  of  his  manu- 
scripts which  I  have  read,  there  is  a  justness  and  felicity  of 
expression  which  is  very  striking.  It  is  the  beginning  of  a 
tale,  and  the  actors  in  it  are  drawn  with  much  of  the  grace 
of  characteristic  portrait-painting,  in  perfectly  pure  and 
simple  language,  which  distinguishes  so  many  of  Addison's 
papers  in  the  "  Spectator."  The  fragment  is  too  short  to 
afibrd  the  means  of  judging  whether  he  had  much  dramatic 
talent,  as  the  persons  of  the  story  are  not  thrown  into  con- 
versation. But  altogether  the  elegance  and  composure  of 
style  are  such  as  one  would  not  have  expected  from  this  ve- 
hement and  ill-fated  young  man.  He  had  a  stronger  desire 
for  literary  fame  burning  in  his  heart,  than  even  that  which 
occasionally  flashed  up  in  his  sisters'.  He  tried  various  out- 
lets for  his  talents.  He  wrote  and  sent  poems  to  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge,  who  both  expressed  kind  and  laudatory  opin- 
ions,  and   he  frec[uently  contributed  verses   to  the  Leeds 


CHAEACTERISTICS    OF   THE    SISTERS   BRONIE.  169 

Mercury,  In  1840,  he  was  living  at  home,  employing  him- 
self in  occasional  composition  of  various  kinds,  and  waiting 
till  some  employment,  for  which  he  might  be  fitted  without 
any  expensive  course  of  preliminary  education,  should  turn 
up  ;  waiting,  not  impatiently ;  for  he  saw  society  of  one  kind 
(probably  what  he  called  "  life  ")  at  the  Black  Bull;  and  at 
Lome  he  was  as  yet  the  cherished  favourite. 

Miss  Branwell  was  unaware  of  the  fermentation  of  unoc- 
cupied talent  going  on  around  her.  She  was  not  her  nieces' 
confidante — ^perhaps  no  one  so  much  older  could  have  been ; 
but  their  father,  from  whom  they  derived  not  a  little  of  their 
adventurous  spirit,  was  silently  cognisant  of  much  of  which. 
Miss  Branwell  took  no  note.  Next  to  her  nephew,  the  decile, 
pensive  Anne  was  her  favourite.  Miss  Branwell  had  taken 
charge  of  her  from  her  infancy ;  she  was  always  patient  and 
tractable,  and  would  submit  quietly  to  occasional  oppression, 
even  when  she  felt  it  keenly.  Not  so  her  two  elder  sisters ; 
they  made  their  opinions  known  when  roused  by  any  injustice. 
At  such  times,  Emily  would  express  herself  as  strongly  as 
Charlotte,  although  perhaps  less  frequently.  But,  in  gener- 
al, notwithstanding  that  Miss  Branwell  might  be  occasionally 
unreasonable,  she  and  her  nieces  went  on  smoothly  enough  ; 
and  though  they  migh^.  now  and  then  be  annoyed  by  petty 
tyranny,  still  she  inspired  them  with  sincere  respect,  and  not 
a  little  afl'ection.  They  were,  moreover,  grateful  to  her  for 
many  habits  she  had  enforced  upon  them,  and  which  in  time 
had  become  second  nature  :  order,  method,  neatness  in  every- 
thing ;  a  perfect  knowledge  of  all  kinds  of  household  work  ; 
an  exact  punctuality,  and  obedience  t©  the  laws  of  time  and 
place,  of  which  no  one  but  themselves  I  have  heard  Char- 
lotte say,  could  tell  the  value  in  after-life  ,  with  their  impul- 
give  natures,  it  was  positive  repose  to  have  learnt  implicit 
obedience  to  external  laws.  People  in  Haworth  have  assured 
me  that,  according  to  the  hour  of  day — nay,  the  very 
VOL.  I. — 8 


170  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

minute — could  they  have  told  what  the  inhabitants  of 
the  parsonage  were  about.  At  certain  times  the  girls  would 
be  sewing  in  their  aunt's  bedroom— the  chamber  which,  in 
former  days,  before  they  had  outstripped  her  in  their  learn- 
ing, had  served  them  as  a  school-room  ;  at  certain  (early)  hours 
they  had  their  meals;  from  six  to  eight,  Miss  Branwell  read 
aloud  to  Mr.  Bronte  ;  at  punctual  eight,  the  household  as- 
sembled to  evening  prayers  in  his  study ;  and  by  nine  he, 
Miss  Branwell,  and  Tabby,  were  all  in  bed, — the  girls  free 
to  pace  up  and  down  (like  restless  wild  animals)  in  the  par- 
lour, talking  over  plans  and  projects,  and  thoughts  of  what 
was  to  be  their  future  life. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  write,  the  favourite  idea  was  that 
of  keeping  a  school.  They  thought  that,  by  a  little 
contrivance,  and  a  very  little  additional  building,  a  small 
number  of  pupils,  four  or  six,  might  be  accommodated  in  the 
parsonage.  As  teaching  seemed  the  only  profession  open  to 
them,  and  as  it  appeared  that  Emily  at  least  could  not  live 
away  from  home,  while  the  others  also  suffered  much  from 
the  same  cause,  this  plan  of  school-keeping  presented  itself 
as  most  desirable.  But  it  involved  some  outlay ;  and  to  this 
their  aunt  was  averse.  Yet  there  was  no  one  to  whom  they 
could  apply  for  a  loan  of  the  requisite  means,  except  Miss 
Branwell,  who  had  made  a  small  store  out  of  her  savings, 
which  she  intended  for  her  nephew  and  nieces  eventually, 
but  which  she  did  not  like  to  risk.  Still,  this  plan  of  school- 
keeping  remained  uppermost ;  and  in  the  evenings  of  this 
winter  of  1839-40,  the  alterations  that  would  be  necessary 
in  the  house,  and  the  best  way  of  convincing  their  aunt  of 
the  wisdom  of  their  project,  formed  the  principal  subject  of 
their  conversation. 

This  anxiety  weighed  upon  their  minds  rather  heavily, 
during  the  months  of  dark  and  dreary  weather.  Nor  were 
external  events,  among  the  circle  of  t}ieir  friends,  of  a  cheer- 


DEATH   OF   A   PUPIL.  ITl 

ful  character  In  January  1840,  Charlotte  heard  of  tho 
death  of  a  young  girl  who  had  been  a  pupil  of  hers,  and  a 
school-fellow  of  Anne's,  at  the  time  when  the  sisters  were 
together  at  Eoe  Head ;  and  had  attached  herself  very  strong- 
ly to  the  latter,  who,  in  return,  bestowed  upon  her  much 
quiet  affection.  It  was  a  sad  day  when  the  intelligence  of 
this  young  creature's  death  arrived.  Charlotte  wrote  thuci 
on  January  12th,  1840  : — 

"  Your  letter  which  I  received  this  morning,  was  one  of 
painful  interest.  Anne  C,  it  seems,  is  dead;  when  I  saw 
her  last,  she  was  a  young,  beautiful,  and  happy  girl ;  and 
now  '  life's  fitful  fever  '  is  over  with  her,  and  she  ^  sleeps  well.' 
I  shall  never  see  her  again.  It  is  a  sorrowful  thought ;  for 
she  was  a  warm-hearted  affectionate  b&ing,  and  I  cared  for 
her.  Wherever  I  seek  for  her  now  in  this  world,  she  cannot 
be  found,  no  more  than  a  flower  or  a  leaf  which  withered 
twenty  years  ago.  A  bereavement  of  this  kind  gives  one  a 
glimpse  of  the  feeling  those  must  have  who  have  seen  all 
drop  round  them,  friend  after  friend,  and  are  left  to  end  their 
pilgrimage  alone.  But  tears  are  fruitless,  and  I  try  not  to 
repine." 

During  this  winter,  Charlotte  employed  her  leisure  hours 
m  writing  a  story.  Some  fragments  of  the  manuscript  yet 
remain,  but  it  is  in  too  small  a  hand  to  be  read  without 
great  fatigue  to  the  eyes ;  and  one  cares  the  less  to  read  it, 
as  she  herself  condemned  it,  in  the  preface  to  the  "  Pro- 
fessor," by  saying  that  in  this  story  she  had  got  over  such 
taste  as  she  might  once  have  had  for  the  ^*  ornamental  and 
redundant  in  composition."  The  beginning,  too,  as  she  her- 
self acknowledges,  was  on  a  scale  commensurate  with  one 
of  Richardson's  novels,  of  seven  or  eight  volumes.  I  gather 
gome  of  these  particulars  from  a  copy  of  a  letter,  apparently 


172  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

in  reply  to  one  from  "Wordsworth,  to  whom  she  had  sent  the 
commencement  of  the  story,  sometime  in  the  summer  of  1840. 

"  Authors  are  generally  very  tenacious  of  their  produc- 
tions, but  I  am  not  so  much  attached  to  this  but  that  I  can 
give  it  up  without  much  distress.  No  doubt,  if  I  had  gone 
on,  I  should  have  made  quite  a  Richardsonian  concern  of 
it.  ...  I  had  materials  in  my  head  for  half-a-dozen 
volumes Of  course,  it  is  with  considerable  re- 
gret I  relinquish  any  scheme  so  charming  as  the  one  I  have 
sketched.  It  is  very  edifying  and  profitable  to  create  a 
world  out  of  your  own  brains,  and  people  it  with  inhabitants, 
who  are  so  many  Melchisedecs,  and  have  no  father  nor 
mother  but  your  own  imagination.  ...  I  am  sorry  I 
did  not  exist  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago,  when  the  ^  Ladies' 
Magazine  '  was  flourishing  like  a  green  bay  tree.  In  that 
case,  I  make  no  doubt,  my  aspirations  after  literary  fame 
would  have  met  with  due  encouragement,  and  I  should  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  introducing  Messrs.  Percy  and  West  into 
the  very  best  society,  and  recording  all  their  sayings  and 

doings  in  double-columned  close-printed  pages 

I  recollect,  when  I  was  a  child,  getting  hold  of  some  anti- 
quated volumes,  ani  reading  them  by  stealth  with  the  most 
exquisite  pleasure,  You  give  a  correct  description  of  the 
patient  Grisels  of  those  days.  My  aunt  was  one  of  them  ; 
and  to  this  day  she  thinks  the  tales  of  the  ^  Ladies'  Magazine  ' 
infinitely  superior  to  any  trash  of  modern  literature.  So  do 
I ;  for  I  read  them  in  childhood,  and  childhood  has  a  very 
strong  faculty  of  admiration,  but  a  very  weak  one  of  criti- 
cism ....  I  am  pleased  that  you  cannot  quite  de- 
cide whether  I  am  an  attorney's  clerk  or  a  novel-reading 
dressmaker.  I  will  not  help  you  at  all  in  the  discover}^ ; 
and  as  to  my  handwriting,  or  the  lady-like  touches  in  my 
btyle  and  imagery,  you  must  not  draw  any  conclusion  from 


HER   REI'LY   TO    WORDSWORTH.  173 

t)iat — I  may  employ  an  amanuensis.  Seriously,  sir,  I  am 
very  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind  and  candid  letter. 
I  almost  wonder  you  took  the  trouble  to  read  and  notice  the 
novelette  of  an  anonymous  scribe,  who  had  not  even  the 
manners  to  tell  you  whether  he  was  a  man  or  a  woman,  or 
whether  his  ^  C.  T.'  meant  Charles  Timms  or  Charlotte 
Tomkins." 

There  are  two  or  three  things  noticeable  in  the  letter 
from  which  these  extracts  are  taken.  The  first  is  the  initials 
with  which  she  had  evidently  signed  the  former  one  to  which 
she  alludes.  About  this  time,  to  her  more  familiar  corre- 
spondents, she  occasionally  calls  herself  "  Charles  Thunder," 
making  a  kind  of  pseudonym  for  herself  out  of  her  Christian 
name,  and  the  meaning  of  her  Greek  surname.  In  the  next 
place,  there  is  a  touch  of  assumed  smartness,  very  difierent 
from  the  simple,  womanly,  dignified  letter  which  she  had 
written  to  Southey,  under  nearly  similar  circumstances,  three 
years  before.  I  imagine  the  cause  of  this  difference  to  be 
twofold.  Southey,  in  his  reply  to  her  first  letter,  had  ap- 
pealed to  the  higher  parts  of  her  nature,  in  calling  her  to 
consider  whether  literature  was,  or  was  not,  the  best  course 
for  a  woman  to  pursue.  But  the  person  to  whom  she  ad- 
dressed this  one  had  evidently  confined  himself  to  purely 
literary  criticisms  •  besides  which,  her  sense  of  humour  was 
tickled  by  the  perplexity  which  her  correspondent  felt  as  to 
whether  he  was  addressing  a  man  or  a  woman.  She  rather 
wished  to  encourage  the  former  idea ;  and,  in  consequence, 
possibly,  assumed  something  of  the  flippancy  which  was 
likely  to  exist  in  her  brother's  style  of  conversation,  from 
whom  she  would  derive  her  notions  of  young  manhood,  not 
likely,  as  far  as  refinement  was  concerned,  to  be  improved  by 
the  other  specimens  she  had  seen,  such  as  the  curates  whoi*) 
she  afterwards  represented  in  "  Shirley." 


174  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

TLese  curates  were  full  of  strong,  Higli- Church  feeliug. 
Belligerent  bj  nature,  it  was  well  for  their  professional 
character  that  they  had,  as  clergymen,  sufficient  cause  for 
the  exercise  of  their  warlike  propensities.  Mr.  Bronte,  with 
all  his  warm  regard  for  Church  and  State,  had  a  great 
respect  for  mental  freedom  ;  and,  though  he  was  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  conceal  his  opinions,  he  lived  in  perfect 
amity  with  all  the  respectable  part  of  those  who  differed  from 
him.  Not  so  the  curates.  Dissent  was  schism,  and  schism 
was  condemned  in  the  Bible.  In  default  of  turbaned  Sara- 
cens, they  entered  on  a  crusade  against  Methodists  in  broad- 
cloth ;  and  the  consequence  was  that  the  Methodists  and 
Baptists  refused  to  pay  the  church-rates.  Miss  Bronte  thus 
describes  the  state  of  things  at  this  time  : — 

"  Little  Haworth  has  been  all  in  a  bustle  about  church- 
rates,  since  you  were  here.  We  had  a  stirring  meeting  in 
the  schoolroom.  Papa  took  the  chair,  and  Mr.  C.  and  Mr. 
W.  acted  as  his  supporters,  one  on  each  side.  There  was 
violent  opposition,  which  set  Mr.  C.'s  Irish  blood  in  a  fer- 
ment, and  if  papa  had  not  kept  him  quiet,  partly  by  persua- 
sion and  partly  by  compulsion,  he  would  have  given  the 
Dissenters  their  kale  through  the  reek — a  Scotch  proverb, 
which  I  will  explain  to  you  another  time.  He  and  Mr.  W. 
both  bottled  up  their  wrath  for  that  time,  but  it  was  only  to 
explode  with  redoubled  force  at  a  future  period.  We  had 
two  sermons  on  dissent,  and  its  consequences,  preached  last 
Sunday — one  in  the  afternoon  by  Mr.  W.,  and  one  in  the 
evening  by  Mr.  C.  All  the  Dissenters  were  invited  to  como 
and  hear,  and  they  actually  shut  up  their  chapels,  and  came 
in  a  body;  of  course  the  church  was  crowded.  Mr.  W. 
delivered  a  noble,  eloquent,  High-Church,  Apostolical-Suc- 
cession discourse,  in  which  he  banged  the  Dissenters  most 
fearlessly  and  unflinchingly.  I  thought  they  had  got  enough 
for  one  while,  but  it  was  nothing  to  the  dose  that  was  thrust 


THE   CURATES   AT   IIAWORTII.  175 

down  their  throats  in  the  evening.  A  keener,  cleverer, 
bolder,  and  more  heart-stirring  harangue  than  that  which 
Mr.  C.  delivered  from  Haworth  pulpit,  last  Sunday  evening, 
I  never  heard.  He  did  not  rant ;  he  did  not  cant ;  he  did 
not  whine ;  he  did  not  sniggle ;  he  just  got  up  and  spoke 
with  the  boldness  of  a  man  who  was  impressed  with  the  truth 
of  what  he  was  saying,  w^ho  has  no  fear  of  his  enemies,  and 
no  dread  of  consequences.  His  sermon  lasted  an  hour,  yet  I 
was  sorry  when  it  was  done.  I  do  not  say  that  I  agree  either 
w4th  him,  or  with  Mr.  W.,  either  in  all  or  in  half  their 
opinions.  I  consider  them  bigoted,  intolerant,  and  wholly 
unjustifiable  on  the  ground  of  common  sense.  My  conscience 
will  not  let  me  be  either  a  Puseyite  or  a  Hookist ;  mats,  if 
I  were  a  Dissenter,  I  would  have  taken  the  first  opportunity 
of  kicking,  or  of  horsewhipping  both  the  gentlemen  for  their 
stern,  bitter  attack  on  my  religion  and  its  teachers.  But  in 
spite  of  all  this,  I  admired  the  noble  integrity  which  could 
dictate  so  fearless  an  opposition  against  so  strong  an  an- 
tagonist. 

"  P.S. — Mr.  W.  has  given  another  lecture  at  the  Keighley 
Mechanics'  Institution,  and  papa  has  also  given  a  lecture; 
both  are  spoken  of  very  highly  in  the  newspapers,  and  it  is 
mentioned  as  a  matter  of  wonder  that  such  displays  of  intel- 
lect should  emanate  from  the  village  of  Haworth,  ^  situated 
among  the  bogs"  and  mountains,  and,  until  very  lately,  sup- 
posed to  be  in  a  state  of  semi-barbarism.'  Such  are  the 
words  of  the  newspaper." 

To  fill  up  the  account  of  this  outwardly  eventless  year,  I 
may  add  a  few  more  extracts  from  the  letters  entrusted  to  me. 

"  3fa^  Ibth,  1840. 
"  Do  not  be  over-persuaded  to  marry  a  man  you  can  never 
respect — I  do  not  say  love  ;  because,  I  think,  if  you  can  respect 
a  person  before  marriage,  moderate  love  at  least  will  come 


176  LIFE    OF    CIIAKLOTTE    BRONTE. 

after ;  and  as  to  intense  passion^  I  am  convinced  that  that 
is  no  desirable  feeling.  In  the  first  place,  it  seldom  or  never 
meets  with  a  requital;  and,  in  the  second  place,  if  it  did,  the 
feeling  would  be  only  temporary ;  it  would  last  the  honey- 
moon, and  then,  perhaps,  give  place  to  disgust,  or  indiflference 
worse,  perhaps,  than  disgust.  Certainly  this  would  be  the 
case  on  the  man's  part ;  and  on  the  woman's — God  help  her, 
if  she  is  left  to  love  passionately  and  alone. 

"  I  am  tolerably  well  convinced  that  I  shall  never  marry 
at  all.  Keason  tells  me  so,  and  I  am  not  so  utterly  the  slave 
of  feeling  but  that  I  can  occasionally  hear  her  voice." 

''June  2nd,  1840. 
"  M.  is  not  yet  come  to  Haworth ;  but  she  is  to  come,  on 
the  condition  that  I  first  go  and  stay  a  few  days  there.     If 
all  be  well,  I  shall  go  next  Wednesday.     I  may  stay  at 

G until  Friday  or  Saturday,  and  the  early  part  of  the 

following  week  I  shall  pass  with  you,  if  you  will  have  me — • 
which  last  sentence  indeed  is  nonsense,  for  as  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  you,  so  I  know  you  will  be  glad  to  see  me.  This  ar- 
rangement will  not  allow  much  time,  but  it  is  the  only  prac- 
ticable one  which,  considering  all  the  circumstances,  I  can 
effect.  Do  not  urge  me  to  stay  more  than  two  or  three  days, 
because  I  shall  be  obliged  to  refuse  you.     I  intend  to  walk 

to  Keighley,  there  to  take  the  coach  as  far  as  B ,  then  to 

get  some  one  to  carry  my  box,  and  to  walk  the  rest  of  the 

way  to  G .     If  I  manage  this,  I  think  I  shall  contrive 

very  well.  I  shall  reach  B.  by  about  five  o'clock,  and  then 
I  shall  have  the  cool  of  the  evening  for  the  walk.  1  have, 
communicated  the  whole  arrangement  to  M.  I  desire  ex- 
ceedingly to  see  both  her  and  you.     Good-bye. 

0.  B 


OPINION   OP   FRENCH   LITERATURE.  177 

"  If  you  Lave  any  better  plan  to  suggest  I  am  open  to 
conviction,  provided  your  plan  is  practicable." 

"  August  20th,  1840. 

*^  Have  you  seen  anything  of  Miss  H.  lately  ?  I  wisb 
they,  or  somebody  else,  would  get  me  a  situation.  I  have 
answered  advertisements  without  number,  but  my  applica- 
tions have  met  with  no  success. 

"  I  have  got  another  bale  of  French  books  from  G.  con- 
taining upwards  of  forty  volumes.  I  have  read  about  half. 
They  are  like  the  rest,  clever,  wicked,  sophistical,  and  im- 
moral. The  best  of  it  is,  they  give  one  a  thorough  idea  of 
France  and  Paris,  and  are  the  best  substitute  for  French  con- 
versation that  I  have  met  with. 

"  I  positively  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you,  for  I  am 
in  a  stupid  humour.  You  must  excuse  this  letter  not  being 
quite  as  long  as  your  own.  I  have  written  to  you  soon  that 
you  might  not  look  after  the  postman  in  vain.  Preserve  this 
writing  as  a  curiosity  in  caligraphy — I  think  it  is  exquisite — 
all  brilliant  black  blots,  and  utterly  illegible  letters. 

"  Caliban." 

"  '  The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth.  Thou  hearest  the 
sound  thereof,  but  canst  not  tell  whence  it  cometh,  nor 
whither  it  goeth.'  That,  I  believe,  is  Scripture,  though  in 
what  chapter  or  book,  or  whether  it  bo  correcUy  quoted,  I 
can't  possibly  say.  However^  it  behoves  me  to  write  a  letter 
to  a  young  woman  of  the  name  of  E.,  with  whom  I  was  once 
acquainted,  *in  life's  morning  march,  when  my  spirit  was 
young.'  This  young  woman  wished  me  to  write  to  her  some 
time  since,  though  I  have  nothing  to  say — I  e'en  put  it  oil, 
day  by  day,  till  at  last,  fearing  that  she  will  *  curse  me  by  her 
gods,'  I  feel  constrained  to  sit  down  and  tack  a  few  lines  to- 
gether, which  she  may  call  a  letter  or  not  as  she  pleases, 

VOL.  L — 8* 


178  LIFE  OF  CnAELOTTE  LHONTE. 

Now  if  the  young  woman  expects  sense  in  this  production^  she 
will  find  herself  miserably  disappointed.  I  shall  dress  her  a 
dish  of  salmagundi — I  shall  cook  a  hash — compound  a  stew- 
toss  up  an  omelette  soufflee  a  la  Franqaise^  and  send  it  her 
with  my  respects.  The  wind,  which  is  very  high  up  in  our 
hills  of  Judea,  though,  I  suppose,  down  in  the  Philistine  flats 
of  B.  parish  it  is  nothing  to  speak  of,  has  produced  the  same 
effects  on  the  contents  of  my  knowledge-box  that  a  quaigh  of 
usquebaugh  does  upon  those  of  most  other  bipeds.  I  see 
everything  couleur  de  rose^  and  am  strongly  inclined  to 
dance  a  jig,  if  I  knew  how.  I  think  I  must  partake  of  the 
nature  of  a  pig  or  an  ass — both  which  animals  are  strongly 
affected  by  a  high  wind.  From  what  quarter  the  wind  blows 
I  cannot  tell,  for  I  never  could  in  my  life  ;  but  I  should  very 
much  like  to  know  how  the  great  brewing-tub  of  Bridlington 
Bay  works,  and  what  sort  of  yeasty  froth  rises  just  now  on 
the  waves. 

"  A  woman  of  the  name  of  Mrs.  B.,  it  seems,  wants  a 
teacher.  I  wish  she  would  have  me ;  and  I  have  written  to 
Miss  W.  to  tell  her  so.  Verily,  it  is  a  delightful  thing  to 
live  here  at  home,  at  full  liberty  to  do  just  what  one  pleases. 
But  I  recollect  some  scrubby  old  fable  about  grasshoppers 
and  ants,  by  a  scrubby  old  knave  yclept  j^sop  ;  the  grass- 
hoppers sang  all  the  summer,  and  starved  all  the  winter. 

"  A  distant  relation  of  mine,  one  Patrick  Branwell,  has 
set  off  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  wild,  wandering,  adven- 
turous, romantic,  knight-errant-like  capacity  of  clerk  on  the 
Leeds  and  Manchester  Railroad.  Leeds  and  Manchester — 
where  are  they  ?  Cities  in  the  wilderness — like  Tadmor, 
alias  Palmyra — are  they  not  ? 

"  There  is  one  little  trait  respecting  Mr.  "W.  which  lately 
came  to  my  knowledge,  which  gives  a  glimpse  of  the  bettei 
Bide  of  his  character.  Last  Saturday  night  he  had  been 
pitting  an   hour   in  the   parlour  with  papa ;  and,  as  he  weni 


SUSAN   BLAND.  179 

away,  I  heard  papa  say  to  him  *  What  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  You  seem  in  very  low  spirits  to-night.'  ^  Oh,  I  don't 
know.  I've  been  to  see  a  poor  young  girl,  who,  I'm  afraid, 
is  dying.'  'Indeed,  what  is  her  name?'  'Susan  Bland, 
the  daughter  of  John  Bland,  the  superintendent.'  Now 
Susan  Bland  is  my  oldest  and  best  scholar  in  the  Sunday- 
school  ;  and,  when  I  heard  that,  I  thought  I  would  go  as 
soon  as  I  could  to  see  her.  I  did  go  on  Monday  afternoon, 
and  found  her  on  her  way  to  that  '  bourn  whence  no  traveller 
returns.'  After  sitting  with  her  some  time,  I  happened  to 
ask  her  mother,  if  she  thought  a  little  port- wine  would  do 
her  good.  She  replied  that  the  doctor  had  recommended  it, 
and  that  when  Mr.  W.  was  last  there,  he  had  brought  them  a 
bottle  of  wine  and  jar  of  preserves.  She  added,  that 
he  was  always  good-natured  to  poor  folks,  and  seemed 
to  have  a  deal  of  feeling  and  kindTheartedness  about  him. 
No  doubt,  there  are  defects  in  his  character,  but  there  are 
also  good  qualities.  .  .  .  .  God  bless  him!  I  wonder  who, 
with  his  advantages,  would  be  without  his  faults.  I  know 
many  of  his  faulty  actions,  many  of  his  weak  points ;  yet, 
where  I  am,  he  shall  always  find  rather  a  defender  than  an 
accuser.  To  be  sure,  my  opinion  will  go  but  a  very  little 
way  to  decide  his  character  ;  what  of  that  ?  People  should 
do  right  as  far  as  their  ability  extends.  You  are  not  to 
suppose  from  all  this^  that  Mr.  W.  and  I  are  on  very  amiable 
terms ;  we  are  not  at  all.  We  are  distant,  cold,  and  re- 
served. We  seldom  speak ;  and  when  we  do,  it  is  only  tc 
exchange  the  most  trivial  and  common-place  remarks." 

The  Mrs.  B.  alluded  to  in  this  letter,  as  in  want  of  a 
governess,  entered  into  a  correspondence  with  Miss  Bronte, 
and  expressed  herself  much  pleased  with  the  letters  she  re- 
ceived from  her ;  with  the  "  style  and  candour  of  the  appli- 
cation," in  which  Charlotte  had  taken  care  to  tell  her,  that 


180  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BRONTE. 

if  she  wanted  a  showy,  elegant,  or  fashionable  person,  hei 
correspondent  was  not  fitted  for  such  a  situation.  But  Mrs 
B.  required  her  governess  to  give  instructions  in  music  and 
singing,  for  which  Charlotte  was  not  qualified  ;  and,  accord- 
ingly, the  negotiation  fell  through.  But  Miss  Bronte  was 
not  one  to  sit  down  in  despair  after  disappointment.  Much 
as  she  disliked  the  life  of  a  private  governess,  it  was  her 
duty  to  relieve  her  father  of  the  burden  of  her  support,  and 
this  was  the  only  way  open  to  her.  So  she  set  to  advertising 
and  inquiring  with  fresh  vigour. 

In  the  mean  time,  a  little  occurrence  took  place,  de- 
scribed in  one  of  her  letters,  which  I  shall  give,  as  it  shows 
her  instinctive  aversion  to  a  particular  class  of  men,  whose 
vices  some  have  supposed  she  looked  upon  with  indulgence. 
The  extract  tells  all  that  need  be  known,  for  the  purpose  I 
have  in  view,  of  the  miserable  pair  to  whom  it  relates. 

"  You  remember  Mr.  and  Mrs. ?     Mrs. came 

here  the  other  day,  with  a  most  melancholy  tale  of  her 
wretched  husband's  drunken,  extravagant,  profligate  habits. 
She  asked  papa's  advice ;  there  was  nothing,  she  said,  but 
ruin  before  them.     They  owed  debts  which  they  could  never 

pay,     She  expected   Mr. 's  instant   dismissal  from  his 

curacy  ;  she  knew,  from  bitter  experience,  that  his  vices 
were  utterly  hopeless.  He  treated  her  and  her  child  savage- 
ly;  with  much  more  to  the  same  efi'ect.  Papa  advised  her 
to  leave  him  for  ever,  and  go  home,  if  she  had  a  home  to  go 
to.  She  said,  this  was  what  she  had  long  resolved  to  do , 
and  she  would  leave  him  directly,  as  soon  as  Mr.  B.  dis- 
missed him.  She  expressed  great  disgust  and  contempt 
towards  him,  and  did  not  affect  to  have  the  shadow  of  re- 
gard in  any  way.  I  do  not  wonder  at  this,  but  I  do  wonder 
she  should  ever  marry  a  man  towards  whom  her  feelings 
must  always   have   been  pretty  much  the  same  as  they  are 


rNSlGHT   INTO   CHARACTER.  ISl 

now.  I  am  morally  certain  no  decent  woman  could  ex- 
perience any  thing  but  aversion  towards  such  a  man  as  Mr 

.     Before  I  knew,  or  suspected  his  character,  and  when 

I  rather  wondered  at  his  versatile  talents,  I  felt  it  in  an  un- 
controllable degree.  I  hated  to  talk  with  him — ^hated  to 
look  at  him ;  though  as  I  was  not  certain  that  there  was 
substantial  reason  for  such  a  dislike,  and  thought  it  absurd 
to  trust  to  mere  instinct,  I  both  concealed  and  repressed  the 
feeling  as  much  as  I  could ;  and,  on  all  occasions,  treated 
him  with  as  much  civility  as  I  was  mistress  of.  I  was  struck 
with  Mary's  expression  of  a  similar  feeling  at  first  sight ; 
she  said,  when  we  left  him,  *  That  is  a  hideous  man,  Char- 
lotte !'     I  thought  ^  he  is  indeed.'  " 


182  LIFE    OF   ClUKLOTTE    BKONTE. 


CHAPTER   X. 

Early  in  March,  1841,  Miss  Bronte  obtained  her  eecond  and 
last  situation  as  a  governess.  This  time  she  esteemed  herself 
fortunate  in  becoming  a  member  of  a  kind-hearted  and  friendly 
household.  The  master  of  it,  she  especially  regarded  as  a 
valuable  friend,  whose  advice  helped  to  guide  her  in  one 
very  important  step  of  her  life.  But  as  her  definite  acquire- 
ments were  few,  she  had  to  eke  them  out  by  employing  her 
leisure  time  in  needle-work ;  and  altogether  her  position  was 
that  of  *'  bonne"  or  nursery  governess,  liable  to  repeated  and 
never-ending  calls  upon  her  time.  This  description  of  un- 
certain, yet  perpetual  employment,  subject  to  the  exercise  of 
another  person's  will  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  was  peculiarly 
trying  to  one  whose  life  at  home  had  been  full  of  abundant 
leisure.  Idle  she  never  was  in  any  place,  but  of  the  mul- 
titude of  small  talks,  plans,  duties,  pleasures,  &c.,  that 
make  up  most  people's  days,  her  home  life  was  nearly  des- 
titute This  made  it  possible  for  her  to  go  through  long  and 
deep  histories  of  feeling  and  imagination,  for  which  others, 
odd  as  it  sounds,  have  rarely  time.  This  made  it  inevitable 
that — ^I  ite  on,  in  her  too  short  career — the  intensity  of  her 
feelings  should  wear  out  her  physical  health.  The  habit  of 
"  making  out,"  which  had  grown  with  her  growth,  and 
strengthened  with  her  strength,  had  become  a  part  of  her 
feature.  Yet  all  exercise  of  her  strongest  and  most  charac- 
teristic faculties  was  now  out  of  the  question.     She  could 


IDEAS    OF   CHILDKEN.  183 

not  (as  while  slie  was  at  Miss  Wooler's)  feel  amidst  tlie  oc- 
cupations of  the  day,  that  when  evening  came,  she  might 
employ  herself  in  more  congenial  ways.  No  doubt,  all  who 
enter  upon  the  career  of  a  governess  have  to  relinquish 
much ;  no  doubt,  it  must  ever  be  a  life  of  sacrifice ;  but  to 
Charlotte  Bronte  it  was  a  perpetual  attempt  to  force  all  her 
faculties  into  a  direction  for  which  the  whole  of  her  previous 
life  had  unfitted  them.  Moreover  the  little  Brontes  had 
been  brought  up  motherless ;  and  from  knowing  nothing  of 
the  gaiety  and  the  sportiveness  of  childhood — from  never 
having  experienced  caresses  or  fond  attentions  themselves— 
they  were  ignorant  of  the  very  nature  of  infancy,  or  how  to 
call  out  its  engaging  qualities.  Children  were  to  them  the 
troublesome  necessities  of  humanity ;  they  had  never  been 
drawn  into  contact  with  them  in  any  other  way.  Years 
afterwards,  when  Miss  Bronte  came  to  stay  with  us,  she 
watched  our  little  girls  perpetually ;  and  I  could  not  per- 
suade her  that  they  were  only  average  specimens  of  w^ell 
brought  up  children.  She  was  surprised  and  touched  by 
any  sign  of  thoughtfalness  for  others,  of  kindness  to  animals, 
or  of  unselfishness  on  their  part;  and  constantly  maintained 
that  she  was  in  the  right,  and  I  in  the  wrong,  when  we  differ- 
ed on  the  point  of  their  unusual  excellence.  All  this  must 
be  borne  in  mind  while  readinsj  the  foUowino*  letters.  And 
it  must  likewise  be  borne  in  mind — by  those  who,  surviving 
her,  look  back  upoiL  her  life  from  their  mount  of  observation, 
— ^liow  no  distaste,  no  suffering  ever  made  her  shrink  from 
any  course  which  she  believed  it  to  be  her  duty  to  engage  in, 


'' March  S,  184:1, 
^'  I  told  you  some   time  since,  that  I  meant  to   get  a 
itaavion,  and  when  I  said  so  my  resolution  was  quite  fixed. 
r  felt  thai  however  often  I  was  disappointed,  I  had  no  inten- 


181  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

tion  of  relinquisliing  my  efforts.  After  loemg  severely  baffled 
two  or  three  times, — after  a  world  of  trouble  in  the  way  of 
correspondence  and  interviews, — I  have  at  length  succeeded, 
and  am  fairly  established  in  my  new  place. 

#  H»  TNT  #  ^  !§• 

"  The  house  is  not  very  large,  but  exceedingly  comfort- 
able and  well  regulated  ;  the  grounds  are  fine  and  extensive, 
In  taking  the  place,  I  have  made  a  large  sacrifice  in  the  way 
of  salary,  in  the  hope  of  securing  comfort, — ^by  which  word 
[  do  not  mean  to  express  good  eating  and  drinking,  or  warm 
fire,  or  a  soft  bed,  but  the  society  of  cheerful  faces,  and  minds 
and  hearts  not  dug  out  of  a  lead-mine,  or  cut  from  a  marble 
quarry.  My  salary  is  not  really  more  than  16Z.  per  annum, 
though  it  is  nominally  20?.,  but  the  expense  of  washing  will 
be  deducted  therefrom.  My  pupils  are  two  in  number,  a 
girl  of  eight,  and  a  boy  of  six.  As  to  my  employers,  you 
will  not  expect  me  to  say  much  about  their  characters  when 
I  tell  you  that  I  only  arrived  here  yesterday.  I  have  not 
the  faculty  of  telling  an  individual's  disposition  at  first  sight. 
Before  I  can  venture  to  pronounce  on  a  character,  I  must 
see  it  first  under  various  lights  and  from  various  points  of 

view.     All  I  can  say  therefore  is,  both  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

seem  to  me  good  sort  of  people.  I  have  as  yet  had  no  cause 
to  complain  of  want  of  considerateness  or  civility.  My  pupils 
are  wild  and  unbroken,  but  apparently  well-disposed.  I 
wish  I  may  be  able  to  say  as  much  next  time  I  write  to  you. 
My  earnest  wish  and  endeavour  will  be  to  please  them.  If  I 
can  but  feel  that  I  am  giving  satisfaction,  and  if  at  the  same 
time  I  can  keep  my  health,  I  shall,  I  hope,  be  moderately 
happy.  But  no  one  but  myself  can  tell  how  hard  a  governess's 
work  is  to  me — ^for  no  one  but  myself  is  aware  how  utterly 
averse  my  whole  mind  and  nature  are  for  the  employment. 
Do  not  think  that  I  fail  to  blame  myself  for  this,  or  that  I 
leave  any  means  unemployed  to  conquer  this  feeling.     Some 


HOME-SICK   IN    SPITE    OF   KINDNESS.  185 

of  my  greatest  difficulties  lie  in  things  that  would  appear  to 
jou  comparatively  trivial.  I  find  it  so  hard  to  repel  the 
rude  familiarity  of  children.  I  find  it  so  difficult  to  ask 
either  servants  or  mistress  for  anything  I  want,  however 
much  I  want  it.  It  is  less  pain  for  me  to  endure  the  greatest 
inconvenience  than  to  go  into  the  kitchen  to  request  its  re- 
moval.    I  am  a  fool.     Heaven  knows  I  cannot  help  it ! 

"  Now  can  you  tell  me  whether  it  is  considered  improper 
for  governesses  to  ask  their  friends  to  come  and  see  them, 
I  do  not  mean,  of  course,  to  stay,  but  just  for  a  call  of  an 
hour  or  two  ?  If  it  is  not  absolute  treason,  I  do  fervently 
request  that  you  will  contrive,  in  some  way  or  other,  to  let 
me  have  a  sight  of  your  face.  Yet  I  feel,  at  the  same  time, 
that  I  am  making  a  very  foolish  and  almost  impracticable 
demand ;  yet  this  is  only  four  miles  from  B !  " 

''March  21. 
"  You  must  excuse  a  very  short  answer  to  your  most 
welcome  letter;    for  my  time  is  entirely  occupied.     Mrs. 

expected  a  good  deal  of  sewing  from  me.     I  cannot 

sew  much  during  the  day,  on  account  of  the  children,  who 
require  the  utmost  attention.  I  am  obliged,  therefore,  to 
devote  the  evenings  to  this  business.  Write  to  me  often ; 
very  long  letters.     It  will  do  both  of  us  good.     This  place 

is  far  better  than ,  but,  God  knows,  I  have  enough  to 

do  to  keep  a  good  heart  in  the  matter.  What  you  said  has 
cheered  me  a  little.  I  wish  I  could  always  act  according  to 
your  advice.  Home-sickness  affects  me  sorely.  I  like  Mr. 
extremely.  The  children  are  over-indulged,  and  con- 
sequently hard  at  times  to  manage.  Do,  do,  do  come  and 
see  me  ;  if  it  be  a  breach  of  etiquette,  never  mind.  If  you 
can  only  stop  an  hour,  come.  Talk  no  more  about  my  for- 
saking you ;  my  darling,  I  could  not  afford  to  do  it.  I  find 
it  is  not  in  my  nature  to  get  on  in  this  weary  world  without 


186  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

sympathy  and  attachment  in  some  quarter ;  and  seldom  in- 
deed do  we  find  it.  It  is  too  great  a  treasure  to  be  ever  wan- 
tonly thrown  away  when  once  secured." 

Miss  Bronte  had  not  been  many  weeks  in  her  new  situa- 
tion before  she  had  a  proof  of  the  kind-hearted  hospitality 
of  her  employers.  Mr. wrote  to  her  father  and  ur- 
gently invited  him  to  come  and  make  acquaintance  with  his 
daughter's  new  home,  by  spending  a  week  with  her  in  it ; 

and  Mrs. expressed  great   regret  when  one  of  Miss 

Bronte's  friends  drove  up  to  the  house  to  leave  a  letter  or 
parcel,  without  entering.  So  she  found  that  all  her  friends 
might  freely  visit  her,  and  that  her  father  would  be  received 
with  especial  gladness.  She  thankfully  acknowledged  this 
kindness  in  writing  to  urge  her  friend  afresh  to  come  and 
see  her ;  which  she  accordingly  did. 

"  June,  1841. 

'^  You  can  hardly  fancy  it  possible,  I  dare  say,  that  1 

cannot  find  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  scribble  a  note  in  ;  but 

so  it  is ;  and  when  a  note  is  written,  it  has  to  be  carried  a 

mile  to  the  post,  and  that  consumes  nearly  an  hour,  which  is 

a  large  portion  of  the   day.     Mr.  and  Mrs. have  been 

gone  a  week.  I  heard  from  them  this  morning.  No  time  is 
fixed  for  their  return,  but  I  hope  it  will  not  be  delayed  long, 
or  I  shall  miss  the  chance  of  seeing  Anne  this  vacation 
She  came  home,  I  understand,  last  Wednesday,  and  is  only 
to  be  allowed  three  weeks'  vacation,  because  the  family  she 
is  with  are  going  to  Scarborough.  /  should  like  to  see  her 
to  judge  for  myself  of  the  state  of  her  health.  I  dare  not 
trust  any  other  person's  report,  no  one  seems  minute  enough 
in  their  observations.  I  should  very  much  have  liked  you 
to  have  seen  her.  I  have  got  on  very  well  with  the  servants 
and  children  so  far ;  yet  it  is  dreary,  solitary  work.     You 


APPEEHENSION    FOR   ANNe's   HEALTH.  187 

can  tell  as  well  as  me  the  lonely  feeling  of  being  without  a 
companion.'' 

Soon  after  this  was  written,  Mr.  and  Mrs. return- 
ed, in  time  to  allow  Charlotte  to  go  and  look  after  Anne's 
health,  which,  as  she  found  to  her  intense  anxiety,  was  far 
from  strong.  What  could  she  do,  to  nurse  and  cherish  up 
this  little  sister,  the  youngest  of  them  all  ?  Apprehension 
about  her  brought  up  once  more  the  idea  of  keeping  a  school. 
If,  by  this  means,  they  three  could  live  together,  and  main- 
tain themselves,  all  might  go  well.  They  would  have  some 
time  of  their  own,  in  which  to  try  again  and  yet  again  at 
that  literary  career,  which,  in  spite  of  all  baffling  difficulties, 
was  never  quite  set  aside  as  an  ultimate  object ;  but  far  the 
strongest  motive  with  Charlotte  was  the  conviction  that 
Anne's  health  was  so  delicate  that  it  required  a  degree  of 
tending  which  none  but  her  sister  could  give.  Thus  she 
wrote  during  those  midsummer  holidays. 

"  Haworth,  July  19th,  1841. 
"  We  waited  long  and  anxiously  for  you,  on  the  Thursday 
that  you  promised  to  come.  I  quite  wearied  my  eyes  with 
watching  from  the  window,  eye-glass  in  hand,  and  sometimes 
spectacles  on  nose.  However,  you  are  not  to  blame  ;  .  .  . 
and  as  to  disappointment,  why,  all  must  suffer  disappoint- 
ment at  some  period  or  other  of  their  lives.  But  a  hundred 
things  I  had  to  say  to  you  will  now  be  forgotten,  and  never 
said.  There  is  a  project  hatching  in  this  house,  which  both 
Emily  and  I  anxiously  wished  to  discuss  with  you.  The 
project  is  yet  in  its  infancy,  hardly  peeping  from  its  shell; 
and  whether  it  will  ever  come  out  a  fine  full-fledged  chicken, 
or  will  turn  addle,  and  die  before  it  cheeps,  is  one  of  those 
considerations  that  are  but  dimly  revealed  by  the  oracles  of 
futurity.     Now,  don't  be  nonplussed  by  all  this  metaphorical 


188  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BKONTE. 

mj^stery.  I  talk  of  a  plain  and  everj-day  occurrence,  tlionglr 
in  Delphic  style,  I  wrap  up  the  information  in  figures  of 
speech  concerning  eggs,  chickens,  etcsetera,  etcaeterorum. 
To  come  to  the  point :  papa  and  aunt  talk,  by  fits  and  starts, 
of  our — id  est,  Emily,  Anne,  and  myself — commencing  a 
school !  I  have  often,  you  know,  said  how  much  I  wished 
such  a  thing;  but  I  never  could  conceive  where  the  capital 
was  to  come  from  for  making  such  a  speculation.  I  was  well 
aware,  indeed,  that  aunt  had  money,  but  I  always  considered 
that  she  was  the  last  person  who  would  ofi'er  a  loan  for  the 
purpose  in  question.  A  loan,  however,  she  lias  offered,  or 
rather  intimates  that  she  perhaps  rvill  ofi'er,  in  case  pupils 
can  be  secured,  an  eligible  situation  obtained,  &c.  This 
sounds  very  fair,  but  still  there  are  matters  to  be  considered 
which  throw  something  of  a  damp  upon  the  scheme.  I  do  not 
expect  that  aunt  will  sink  more  than  150Z.  in  such  a  venture ; 
and  would  it  be  possible  to  establish  a  respectable  (not  by  any 
means  a  showy)  school,  and  to  commence  housekeeping,  with 
a  capital  of  only  that  amount  ?  Propound  the  question  to 
your  sister,  if  you  think  she  can  answer  it ;  if  not,  don't  say 
a  word  on  the  subject.  As  to  getting  into  debt,  that  is  a  thing 
we  could  none  of  us  reconcile  our  minds  to  for  a  moment. 
We  do  not  care  how  modest,  how  humble  our  commencement 
be,  so  it  be  made  on  sure  grounds,  and  have  a  safe  founda- 
tion. In  thinking  of  all  possible  and  impossible  places  where 
we  could  establish  a  school,  I  have  thought  of  Burlington,  or 
rather  of  the  neighbourhood  of  Burlington.  Do  you  remem- 
ber whether  tnere  was  any  other  school  there  besides  that  of 
Miss ?  This  is,  of  course,  a  perfectly  crude  and  ran- 
dom idea.  There  are  a  hundred  reasons  why  it  should  be 
an  impracticable  one.  We  have  no  connections,  no  acquaint- 
ances there;  it  is  far  from  home,  &c.  Still,  I  fancy  the 
ground  in  the  East  Biding  is  less  fully  occupied  than  in  the 
West.     Much  inquiry  and  consideration  will  be  necessary 


WISHES    AND   ASPIEATIONS.  ISli 

of  course,  before  any  place  is  decided  on ;  and   I  fear  much 
time  will  elapse  before  any  plan  is  executed.     .     .     .     .     . 

Write  as  soon  as  you  can.  I  shall  not  leave  my  present 
situation  till  my  future  prospects  assume  a  more  fixed  and 
definite  aspect." 

A  fortnight  afterwards,  we  see  that  the  seed  has  been 
gown  which  was  to  grow  up  into  a  plan  materially  influencing 
her  future  life. 

''August  1th,  1841. 
"  This  is  Saturday  evening ;  I  have  put  the  children  to 
bed ;  now  I  am  going  to  sit  down  and  answer  your  letter. 
I  am  again  by  myself — housekeeper  and  governess — for  Mr. 

and  Mrs. '  are  staying  at .     To  speak  truth,  though 

I  am  solitary  while  they  are  away,  it  is  still  by  far  the  hap- 
piest part  of  my  time.  The  children  are  under  decent  con- 
trol, the  servants  are  very  observant  and  attentive  to  me, 
and  the  occasional  absence  of  the  master  and  mistress  relieves 
me  from  the  duty  of  always  endeavouring  to  seem   cheerful 

and  conversable.     Martha ,  it  appears,  is  in  the  way  of 

enjoying  great  advantages ;  so  is  Mary,  for  you  will  be  sur- 
prised to  hear  that  she  is  returning  immediately  to  the  Con- 
tinent with  her  brother ;  not,  however,  to  stay  there,  but  to 
take  a  month's  tour  and  recreation.  I  have  had  a  long  letter 
from  Mary,  and  a  packet  containing  a  present  of  a  very  hand- 
some black  silk  scarf,  and  a  pair  of  beautiful  kid  gloves, 
bought  at  Brussels.  Of  course,  I  was  in  one  sense  pleased 
with  tha  gift — pleased  that  they  should  think  of  me  so  far 
off,  amidst  the  excitements  of  one  of  the  most  splendid  capi- 
tals of  Europe ;  and  yet  it  felt  irksome  to  accept  it.  I  should 
think  Mary  and  Martha  have  not  more  than  sufficient  pocket- 
money  to  supply  themselves.  I  wish  they  had  testified  their 
regard  by  a  less  expensive  token.  Mary's  letters  spoke  of 
some  of  the  pictures  and  cathedrals  she  had  seen — ^pictures 


190  LIFE   OF    CllAllLOTTE   EKONTE. 

the  most  exquisite,  cathedrals  the  most  venerable.  I  hardly 
know  what  swelled  to  my  throat  as  I  read  her  letter:  such  a 
vehement  impatience  of  restraint  and  steady  work ;  such  a 
strong  wish  for  wings — wings  such  as  wealth  can  furnish ; 
such  an  urgent  thirst  to  see,  to  know,  to  learn;  something 
internal  seemed  to  expand  bodily  for  a  minute.  I  was  tan- 
talised by  the  consciousness  of  faculties  unexercised, — then 
all  collapsed,  and  I  despaired.  My  dear,  I  would  hardly 
make  that  confession  to  any  one  but  yourself;  and  to  you, 
rather  in  a  letter  than  viva  voce.  These  rebellious  and  ab- 
surd emotions  were  only  momentary ;  I  quelled  them  in  five 
minutes.  I  hope  they  will  not  revive,  for  they  were  acutely 
painful.  No  further  steps  have  been  taken  about  the  project 
I  mentioned  to  you,  nor  probably  will  be  for  the  present ; 
but  Emily,  and  Anne,  and  I,  keep  it  in  view.  It  is  our  polar 
star,  and  we  look  to  it  in  all  circumstances  of  despondency. 
I  begin  to  suspect  I  am  writing  in  a  strain  which  will  make 
you  think  I  am  unhappy.  This  is  far  from  being  the  case ; 
on  the  contrary,  I  know  my  place  is  a  favourable  one,  for  a 
governess.  What  dismays  and  haunts  me  sometimes,  is  a 
conviction  that  I  have  no  natural  knack  for  my  vocation.  If 
teaching  only  were  requisite,  it  would  be  smooth  and  easy ; 
but  it  is  the  living  in  other  people's  houses— the  estrange- 
ment from  one's  real  character — the  adoption  of  a  cold,  rigid, 
apath'etic  exterior,  that  is  painful.  .  .  .  You  will  not 
mention  our  school  project  at  present.  A  project  not  actu- 
ally commenced  is  al\i'ays  uncertain.  Write  to  me  often,  my 
dear  Nell ;  you  knoiu  your  letters  are  valued.  Your  ^  loving 
child '  (as  you  choose  to  call  me  so). 

"  P.  S.  I  am  well  in  health;  don't  fancy  I  am  not ;  but 
I  have  one  aching  feeling  at  my  heart  (I  must  allude  to  it, 
though  I  had  resolved  not  to).     It  is  about  Anne;  she  has 


SISTEELY   ANXIETIES.  191 

SO  much  to  endure  :  far,  far  more  tlian  I  ever  had.  "WheD 
my  thoughts  turn  to  her,  they  always  see  her  as  a  patient 
persecuted  stranger.  I  know  what  concealed  susceptibility 
is  in  her  nature,  when  her  feelings  are  wounded.  I  wish  I 
could  be  with  her,  to  administer  a  little  balm.  She  is  more 
lonely — less  gifted  with  the  power  of  making  friends,  even 
than  I  am.     *  Drop  the  subject.'  " 

She  could  bear  much  for  herself;  but  she  could  not  pa- 
tiently bear  the  sorrows  of  others,  especially  of  her  sisters ; 
and  again,  of  the  two  sisters,  the  idea  of  the  little,  gentle 
youngest  suffering  in'  lonely  patience,  was  insupportable  to 
her.  Something  must  be  done.  No  matter  if  the  desired 
end  were  far  away ;  all  time  was  lost  in  which  she  was  not 
making  progress,  however  slow,  towards  it.  To  have  a  school, 
was  to  have  some  portion  of  daily  leisure,  uncontrolled  but 
by  her  own  sense  of  duty ;  it  was  for  the  three  sisters,  loving 
each  other  with  so  passionate  an  affection,  to  be  together  under 
one  roof,  and  yet  earning  their  own  subsistence;  above  all,  it 
was  to  have  the  power  of  watching  over  those  two  whose  life 
and  happiness  were  ever  to  Charlotte  far  more  than  her  own. 
But  no  trembling  impatience  should  lead  her  to  take  an  un- 
wise step  in  haste.  She  inquired  in  every  direction  she  could, 
as  to  the  chances  which  a  new  school  might  have  of  success. 
But  in  all  there  seemed  more  establishments  like  the  one 
which  the  sisters  wished  to  set  up  than  could  be  supported. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  Superior  advantages  must  be  offered. 
But  how  ?  They  themselves  abounded  in  thought,  power,  and 
information ;  but  these  are  qualifications  scarcely  fit  to  be  in* 
Bcrted  in  a  prospectus.  Of  French  they  knew  something ; 
enough  to  read  it  fluently,  but  hardly  enough  to  teach  it  in 
competition  with  natives,  or  professional  masters.  Emily  and 
Anne  had  some  knowledge  of  music  ;  but  here  again  it  was 
doubtful  whether,  without  more  instruction,  they  could  en- 
gage to  give  lessons  in  it. 


192  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

Just  about  tliis  time,  Miss  Wooler  was  thinking  of  relin- 
qu  ishing  her  school  at  Dewsbury  Moor  ;  and  offered  to  give 
it  up  in  favour  of  her  old  pupils,  the  Brontes.  A  sister  of 
hers  had  taken  the  active  management  since  the  time  when 
Charlotte  was  a  teacher ;  but  the  number  of  pupils  had  di- 
minished ;  and,  if  the  Brontes  undertook  it,  they  would  have 
to  try  and  work  it  up  to  its  former  state  of  prosperity.  This, 
again,  would  require  advantages  on  their  part  which  they  did 
not  at  present  possess,  but  which  Charlotte  caught  a  glimpse 
of.  She  resolved  to  follow  the  clue,  and  never  to  rest  till 
she  had  reached  a  successful  issue.  With  the  forced  calm 
of  a  suppressed  eagerness,  that  sends  a  glow  of  desire  through 
every  word  of  the  following  letter,  she  wrote  to  her  aunt  thus. 

"/SV-  29/^,  1841. 
*'  Dear  Aunt, 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  of  Miss  Wooler  yet  since  I 
wrote  to  her,  intimating  that  I  would  accept  her  offer.  I  can- 
not conjecture  the  reason  of  this  long  silence,  unless  some  un- 
foreseen impediment  has  occurred  in  concluding  the  bargain. 
Meantime,  a  plan  has  been  suggested  and  approved  by  Mr. 

and    Mrs.  "    (the  father  and   mother  of   her   pupils, 

"  and  others,  which  I  wish  now  to  impart  to  you.  My  friends 
recommend  me,  if  I  desire  to  secure  permanent  success,  to 
delay  commencing  the  school  for  six  months  longer,  and  by 
all  means  to  contrive,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  to  spend  the  in- 
tervening time  in  some  school  on  the  continent.  They  say 
schools  in  England  are  so  numerous,  competition  so  great, 
that  without  some  such  step  towards  attaining  superiority, 
we  shall  probably  have  a  very  hard  struggle,  and  may  fail  in 
the  end.  They  say,  moreover,  that  the  loan  of  lOOZ.,  which 
you  have  been  so  kind  as  to  offer  us,  will,  perhaps,  not  be  all 
required  now,  as  Miss  Wooler  will  lend  us  the  furniture ; 
and  that,  if  the  speculation  is  intended  to  be  a  good  and  sue- 


PLANS  FOK  THE  FUTUEE.     .      193 

.cssful  one,  half  the  sum,  at  least,  ought  to  be  laid  out  in  the 
manner  I  have  mentioned,  thereby  insuring  a  more  speedy 
repayment  both  of  interest  and  principal. 

"  I  would  not  go  to  France  or  to  Paris.  I  would  go  to 
Brussels,  in  Belgium.  The  cost  of  the  journey  there,  at  the 
dearest  rate  of  travellings  would  be  51. ;  living  is  there  little 
more  than  half  as  dear  as  it  is  in  England,  and  the  facilities 
for  education  are  equal  or  superior  to  any  other  place  in  Eu 
rope.  In  half  a  year,  I  could  acquire  a  thorough  familiarity 
with  French.  I  could  improve  greatly  in  Italian,  and  even 
get  a  dash  of  German,-  i.  e.,  providing  my  health  continued 
as  good  as  it  is  now.  Mary  is  now  staying  at  Brussels,  at  a 
first  rate  establishment  there.  I  should  not  think  of  going  to 
the  Chateau  de  Kokleberg,  where  she  is  resident,  as  the  terms 
are  much  too  high ;  but  if  I  wrote  to  her,  she,  with  the  as- 
sistance of  Mrs.  Jenkins,  the  wife  of  the  British  Chaplain, 
would  be  able  to  secure  me  a  cheap  decent  residence  and  re- 
spectable protection.  I  should  have  the  opportunity  of  seeing 
ner  frequently ;  she  would  make  me  acquainted  with  the  city ; 
and,  with  the  assistance  of  her  cousins,  I  should  probably  be 
introduced  to  connections  far  more  improving,  polished,  and 
cultivated,  than  I  have  yet  known. 

"  These  are  advantages  which  would  turn  to  real  account, 
when  we  actually  commenced  a  school ;  and,  if  Emily  could 
share  them  with  me,  we  could  take  a  footing  in  the  world 
afterwards  which  we  can  never  do  now.  I  say  Emily  instead 
of  Anne  ;  for  Anne  might  take  her  turn  at  some  future  period, 
if  our  school  answered.  - 1  feel  certain,  while  I  am  writing, 
that  you  will  see  the  propriety  of  what  I  say.  You  always 
like  to  use  your  money  to  the  best  advantage.  You  are  not 
fond  of  making  shabby  purchases ;  when  you  do  confer  a  fa- 
vour, it  is  often  done  in  style;  and,  depend  upon  it,  50Z.,  or 
lOOZ.,  thus  laid  out,  would  be  well  employed.  Of  course,  I 
know  no  other  freind  in  the  world  to  whom  I  could  apply,  on 
VOL.  I. — 9 


194  IJFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BPwONTE. 

this  subject,  except  yourself.  I  feel  an  absolute  conviction 
that,  if  this  advantage  were  allowed  us,  it  would  be  the 
making  of  us  for  life.  Papa  will,  perhaps,  think  it  a  wild 
and  ambitious  scheme  ;  but  who  ever  rose  in  the  world  with- 
out ambition  ?  When  he  left  Ireland  to  go  to  Cambridge 
University,  he  was  as  ambitious  as  I  am  now.  I  want  us  ail 
to  get  on.  I  know  we  have  talents,  and  I  want  them  to  be 
turned  to  account.  I  look  to  you,  aunt,  to  help  us.  I  think 
you  will  not  refuse.  I  know,  if  you  consent,  it  shall  not  be 
my  fault  if  you  ever  repent  your  kindness." 

This  letter  was  written  from  the  house  in  which  she  was 
residing  as  governess.  It  was  some  little  time  before  an 
answer  came.  Much  had  to  be  talked  over  between  the 
father  and  aunt  in  Haworth  Parsonage.  At  last  consent  was 
given.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  she  confided  her  plan  to  an 
intimate  friend.  She  was  not  one  to  talk  over-much  about 
any  project,  while  it  remained  uncertain — to  speak  about  her 
labour,  in  any  direction,  while  its  result  was  doubtful. 

"A^ov.  2,  1841. 
"  Now  let  us  begin  to  quarrel.  In  the  first  place  I  must 
consider  whether  I  will  commence  operations  on  the  defen- 
sive, or  the  ofiensive.  The  defensive,  I  think.  You  say, 
and  I  see  plainly,  that  your  feelings  have  been  hurt  by  ac. 
apparent  want  of  confidence  on  my  part.  You  heard  from 
others  of  Miss  Wooler's  overtures  before  I  communicated 
them  to  you  myself.  This  is  true.  I  was  deliberating  on 
plans  important  to  my  future  prospects.  I  never  exchanged 
a  letter  with  you  on  the  subject.  True  again.  This  appears 
strange  conduct  to  a  friend,  near  and  dear,  long  known,  and 
never  found  wanting.  Most  true.  I  cannot  give  you  my 
excuses  for  this  behaviour ;  this  word  excuse  implies  confes* 
^ion  of  a  fault,  and  I  do  not  feel  that  I  have  been  in  fault. 


PLANS  FOK  THE  FUTURE.  195 

TL'G  plain  fact  is,  I  was  not,  I  am  not  now,  certain  of  my 
destiny.  On  tlie  contrary,  I  have  been  most  uncertain,  per- 
plexed with  contradictory  schemes  and  proposals.  My  time, 
as  I  have  often  told  you,  is  fully  occupied ;  yet  I  had  many 
letters  to  write,  which  it  was  absolutely  necessary  should  be 
written.  I  knew  it  would  avail  nothing  to  write  to  you  then 
to  say  I  was  in  doubt  and  uncertainty— hoping  this,  fearing 
that,  anxious,  eagerly  desirous  to  do  what  seemed  impossible 
to  be  done.  When  I  thought  of  you  in  that  busy  interval, 
it  was  to  resolve,  that  you  should  know  all  when  my  way  was 
clear,  and  my  grand  end  attained.  If  I  could,  I  would  al- 
ways work  in  silence  and  obscurity,  and  let  my  efforts  be 
known  by  their  results.  Miss  W.  did  most  kindly  propose 
that  I  should  come  to  Dewsbury  Moor,  and  attempt  to  revive 
the  school  her  sister  had  relinquished.  She  offered  me  the 
use  of  her  furniture,  for  the  consideration  of  her  board. 
At  first,  I  received  the  proposal  cordially,  and  prepared  to  do 
my  utmost  to  bring  about  success ;  but  a  fire  was  kindled  in 
my  very  heart,  which  I  could  not  quench.  I  so  longed  to  in- 
crease my  attainments — to  become  something  better  than  I  am ; 
a  glimpse  of  what  I  felt,  I  showed  to  you  in  one  of  my  former 
letters — only  a  glimpse  ;  Mary  cast  oil  upon  the  flames — en- 
couraged me,  and  in  her  own  strong,  energetic  language,  heart- 
ened me  on.  I  longed  to  go  to  Brussels ;  but  how  could  I  get  ? 
I  wished  for  one,  at  least,  of  my  sisters  to  share  the  advan- 
tage with  me.  I  fixed  on  Emily.  She  deserved  the  reward, 
I  knew.  How  could  the  point  be  managed  ?  In  extreme 
excitement,  I  wrote  a  letter  home,  which  carried  the  day. 
I  made  an  appeal  to  aunt  for  assistance,  which  was  answer- 
ed by  consent.  Things  are  not  settled ;  yet  it  is  sufficient  to 
say  we  have  a  chance  of  going  for  half  a  year.  Dewsbury  Moor 
is  relinquished.  Perhaps,  fortunately  so,  for  it  is  an  obscure, 
dreary  place,  not  adapted  for  a  school.  In  my  secret  soul,  I 
believe  there  is  no  cause  to  regret  it.     My  plans  for  the  fu- 


19G  LIFE    OF   CIIAIiLOTTE   EEONTE. 

ture  are  bounded  to  this  intention  :  if  I  once  get  to  Brussels, 

and  if  mj  health  is  spared,   I  will  do  my  best  to  make  the 

utmost  of  every  advantage  that  shall  come  within  my  reach. 

When  the  half-year  is  expired,  I  will  do  what  I  can. 
#  Jk  *  *  ^!t 

"  Believe  me,  though  I  was  born  in  April,  the  month  of 
cloud  and  sunshine,  I  am  not  changeful.  My  spirits  are  un- 
equal, and  sometimes  I  speak  vehemently,  and  sometimes  I 
say  nothing  at  all;  but  I  have  a  steady  regard  for  you,  and 
if  you  will  let  the  cloud  and  shower  pass  by,  be  sure  the  sun 
is  always  behind,  obscured,  but  still  existing." 

At  Christmas  she  left  her  situation,  after  a  parting  with 
her  employers,  which  seems  to  have  affected  and  touched  her 
greatly.  "  They  only  made  too  much  of  me,"  was  her  remark, 
after  leaving  this  family;  "  I  did  not  deserve  it." 

All  four  children  hoped  to  meet  together  at  their  father's 
house  this  December.  Branwell  expected  to  have  a  short 
leave  of  absence  from  his  employment  as  a  clerk  on  the  Leeds 
and  Manchester  Bailway,  in  which  he  had  been  engaged  for 
five  months.  Anne  arrived  before  Christmas-day,  She  had 
rendered  herself  so  valuable  in  her  difficult  situation,  that 
her  employers  vehemently  urged  her  return,  although  she 
had  announced  her  resolution  to  leave  them ;  partly  on  ac- 
count of  the  harsh  treatment  she  had  received,  and  partly 
because  her  stay  at  home,  during  her  sisters'  absence  in  Bel 
gium,  seemed  desirable,  when  the  age  of  the  three  remaining 
inhabitants  of  the  parsonage  was  taken  into  consideration. 

After  some  correspondence  and  much  talking  over  plan^i 
at  home,  it  seemed  better,  in  consequence  of  letters  which 
they  received  from  Brussels  giving  a  discouraging  account  of 
the  schools  there,  that  Charlotte  and  Emily  should  go  to  an 
institution  at  Lille,  in  the  north  of  France,  which  was  highly 


PKErARATIONS  FOK  TKAVEL.  197 

recommended  by  Baptist  Noel,  and  other  clergymen.  In- 
deed, at  the  end  of  January,  it  was  arranged  that  they  were 
to  set  off  for  this  place  in  three  weeks,  under  the  escort  of  a 
French  lady,  then  visiting  in  London.  The  terms  were  £50 
each  pupil,  for  board  and  French  alone,  but  a  separate  room 
was  to  be  allowed  for  this  sum  ;  without  this  indulgence,  it 
was  lower.     Charlotte  writes  : — 

"  January  2{)th,  1842. 
^'  I  considered  it  kind  in  aunt  to  consent  to  an  extra  sum 
for  a  separate  room.  We  shall  find  it  a  great  privilege  in 
many  ways.  I  regret  the  change  from  Brussels  to  Lille  on 
many  accounts,  chiefly  that  I  shall  not  see  Martha.  Mary 
has  been  indefatigably  kind  in  providing  me  with  information. 
She  has  grudged  no  labour,  and  scarcely  any  expense  to  that 
end.  Mary's  price  is  above  rubies.  I  have,  in  fact,  two 
friends — ^you  and  her — staunch  and  true,  in  whose  faith  and 
sincerity  I  have  as  strong  a  belief  as  I  have  in  the  Bible.  I 
have  bothered  you  both — ^you  especially  ;  but  you  always  get 
the  tongs  and  heap  coals  of  fire  upon  my  head.  I  have  had 
letters  to  write  lately  to  Brussels,  to  Lille,  and  to  London. 
I  have  lots  of  chemises,  night-gowns,  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
and  pockets  to  make ;  besides  clothes  to  repair.  I  have  been, 
every  week  since  I  came  home,  expecting  to  see  Branwell, 
and  he  has  never  been  able  to  get  over  yet.  We  fully  ex- 
pect him,  however,  next  Saturday.  Under  these  circum- 
stances how  can  I  go  visiting  ?  You  tantalize  me  to  death 
with  talking  of  conversations  by  the  fireside.  Depend  upon 
it,  we  are  not  to  have  any  such  for  many  a  long  month  to  com€ 
I  get  an  interesting  impression  of  old  age  upon  my  face  ;  and 
when  you  see  me  next  I  shall  certainly  wear  caps  and  spec* 
tacles." 


198  TTFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE 


CIIAPTEE   XI. 

I  AM  not  aware  of  all  the  circumstances  whicli  lei  to  the  re- 
linquishment of  the  Lille  plan.  Brussels  had  had  from  the 
first  a  strong  attraction  for  Charlotte ;  and  the  idea  of  going 
there,  in  preference  to  any  other  place,  had  only  been  given 
up  in  consequence  of  the  information  received  of  the  second- 
rate  character  of  its  schools.  Keference  has  been  made  in 
her  letters  to  Mrs.  Jenkins,  the  wife  of  the  chaplain  of  the 
British  Embassy.  At  the  request  of  his  brother — a  clergy- 
man, living  not  many  miles  from  Haworth,  and  an  acquaint- 
ance of  Mr.  Bronte's — she  made  much  inquiry,  and  at  length, 
after  some  discouragement  in  her  search,  heard  of  a  school 
which  seemed  in  every  respect  desirable.  There  was  an 
English  lady,  who  had  long  lived  in  the  Orleans  family, 
amidst  the  various  fluctuations  of  their  fortunes,  and  who, 
when  the  Princess  Louise  was  married  to  King  Leopold,  ac- 
companied her  to  Brussels,  in  the  capacity  of  reader.  This 
lady's  granddaughter  was  receiving  her  education  at  the  pen- 
sionnat  of  Madame  Heger ;  and  so  satisfied  was  the  grand- 
mother with  the  kind  of  instruction  given,  that  she  named 
the  establishment,  with  high  encomiums,  to  Mrs.  Jenkins ; 
and,  in  consequence,  it  was  decided  that,  if  the  terms  suited, 
Miss  Bronte  and  Emily  should  proceed  thither.  M.  Heger 
nforms  me  that,  on  receipt  of  a  letter  from  Charlotte,  mak- 
ng  very  particular  inquiries  as  to  the  possible  amount  of 


DEPAKTJEE   FOR   BRUSSELS.  199 

wnat  are  usually  termed  "  extras,"  he  and  Lis  wife  were  so 
much  struck  by  the  simple  earnest  tone  of  the  letter,  that 
they  said  to  each  other  : — "  These  are  the  daughters  of  an 
English  pastor,  of  moderate  means,  anxious  to  learn  with 
an  ulterior  view  of  instructing  others,  and  to  whom  the  risk 
of  additional  expense  is  of  great  consequence.  Let  us  name  a 
specific  sum,  within  which  all  expenses  shall  be  included." 

This  was  accordingly  done  ;  the  agreement  was  concluded, 
and  the  Brontes  prepared  to  leave  their  native  country  for 
the  first  time,  if  we  except  the  melancholy  and  memorable 
residence  at  Cowan's  Bridge.  Mr.  Bronte  determined  to  ac- 
company his  daughters.  Mary  and  her  brother,  who  were 
experienced  in  foreign  travelling,  were  also  of  the  party. 
Charlotte  first  saw  London  in  the  day  or  two  they  now 
stopped  there  ,*  and,  from  an  expression  in  one  of  her  subse- 
quent letters,  they  all,  I  believe,  stayed  at  the  Chapter 
Coffee  House,  Paternoster  Row — a  strange,  old-fashioned 
tavern,  of  which  I  shall  have  more  to  say  hereafter. 

Mr.  Bronte  took  his  daughters  to  the  Rue  d'Isabelle, 
Brussels  ;  remained  one  night  at  Mr.  Jenkins' ;  and  straight 
returned  to  his  wild  Yorkshire  village. 

What  a  contrast  to  that  must  the  Belgian  capital  have 
presented  to  those  two  young  women  thus  left  behind ! 
Suffering  acutely  from  every  strange  and  unaccustomed  con- 
tact— far  away  from  their  beloved  home,  and  the  dear  moors 
beyond— their  indomitable  will  was  their  great  support. 
Charlotte's  own  words,  with  regard  to  Emily,  are  : — 

"  After  the  age  of  twenty,  having  meantime  studied  alone 
with  diligence  and  perseverance,  she  went  with  me  to  an  es- 
tablishment on  the  continent.  The  same  suffering  and  con- 
flict ensued,  heightened  by  the  strong  recoil  of  her  upright 
heretic  and  English  spirit  from  the  gentle  Jesuitry  of  the 
foreign  and  Romish  system.  Once  more  she  seemed  sinking, 
but  this  time  she  rallied  through  the  mere  force  of  resolu« 


200  TJFE    OF    CIIAKLOTTE    BRONTE. 

tion  :  with  inward  remorse  and  shame  she  looked  back  on 
her  former  failure,  and  resolved  to  conquer,  but  the  victory 
cost  her  dear.  She  was  never  happy  till  she  carried  her  hard- 
woh  knowledge  hack  to  the  remote  English  village,  the  old 
parsonage-house,  and  desolate  Yorkshire  hills." 

They  wanted  learning.  They  came  for  learning.  They 
would  learn.  Where  they  had  a  distinct  purpose  to  be 
achieved  in  intercourse  with  their  fellows,  thoy  forgot 
themselves;  at  all  other  times  they  were  miserably  shy. 
Mrs.  Jenkins  told  me  that  she  used  to  ask  them  to  spend 
Sundays  and  holidays  with  her,  until  she  found  that  they  felt 
more  pain  than  pleasure  from  such  visits.  Emily  hardly 
ever  uttered  more  than  a  monosyllable.  Charlotte  was  some- 
times excited  sufficiently  to  speak  eloquently  and  well — on 
certain  subjects ;  but  before  her  tongue  was  thus  loosened, 
she  had  a  habit  of  gradually  wheeling  round  on  her  chair,  so 
as  almost  to  conceal  her  face  from  the  person  to  whom  she 
was  speaking. 

And  yet  there  was  much  in  Brussels  to  strike  a  responsive 
chord  in  her  powerful  imagination.  At  length  she  was  see- 
ing somewhat  of  .that  grand  old  world  of  which  she  had 
dreamed.  As  the  gay  crowds  passed  by  her,  so  had  gay 
crowds  paced  those  streets  for  centuries,  in  all  their  varying 
costumes.  Every  spot  told  an  historic  tale,  extending  back 
into  the  fabulous  ages  when  San  and  Jannika,  the  aboriginal 
giant  and  giantess,  looked  over  the  wall,  forty  feet  high,  of 
what  is  now  the  Rue  Villa  Hermosa,  and  peered  down  upon 
the  new  settlers  who  were  to  turn  them  out  of  the  country  in 
which  they  had  lived  since  the  deluge.  The  great  solemn 
Cathedral  of  St.  Gudule,  the  religious  paintings,  the  striking 
forms  and  ceremonies  of  the  Romish  Church — all  made  a 
deep  impression  on  the  girls,  fresh  from  the  bare  walls  and 
simple  worship  of  Haworth  Church.     And  then  they  were 


THE   KUE    d'iSABELLE.  201 

indignant  with  themselves  for  having  been  susceptible  of  thia 
impression,  and  their  stout  Protestant  hearts  arrayed  them- 
selves against  the  false  Duessa  that  had  thus  imposed  upon 
them. 

The  very  building  they  occupied  as  pupils,  in  Madame 
Heger's  pensionnat,  had  its  own  ghostly  train  of  splendid  as- 
sociations, marching  for  ever,  in  shadowy  procession,  through 
and  through  the  ancient  rooms,  and  shaded  alleys  of  the 
gardens.  From  the  splendour  of  to-day  in  the  Rue  Royale, 
if  you  turn  aside,  near  the  statue  of  the  General  Beliard, 
you  look  down  four  flights  of  broad  stone  steps  upon  the  Kue 
d'Isabelle.  The  chimneys  of  the  houses  in  it  are  below  your 
feet.  Opposite  to  the  lowest  flight  of  steps,  there  is  a  largo 
old  mansion  facing  you,  with  a  spacious  walled  garden  behind 
— and  to  the  right  of  it.  In  front  of  this  garden,  on  the 
same  side  as  the  mansion,  and  with  great  boughs  of  trees 
sweeping  over  their  lowly  roofs,  is  a  row  of  small,  picturesque, 
old-fashioned  cottages,  not  unlike,  in  degree  and  uniformity, 
to  the  almshouses  so  often  seen  in  an  English  country  town. 
The  Kue  d'Isabelle  looks  as  though  it  had  been  untouched 
by  the  innovations  of  the  builder  for  the  last  three  centu 
ries ;  and  yet  any  one  might  drop  a  stone  into  it  from  the 
back  windows  of  the  grand  modern  hotels  in  the  Rue  Royale, 
built  and  furnished  in  the  newest  Parisian  fashion. 

In  the  thirteenth  century,  the  Rue  d'Isabelle  was  called 
the  Fosse-aux-Chions ;  and  the  kennels  for  the  ducal  hounds 
occupied  the  place  where  Madame  Heger's  pensionnat  now 
stands.  A  hospital  (in  the  ancient  large  meaning  of  the 
word)  succeeded  to  the  kennel.  The  houseless  and  the  poor, 
perhaps  the  leprous,  were  received  by  the  brethren  of  a  reli- 
gious order,  in  a  building  on  this  sheltered  site  ;  and  what 
had  been  a  fosse  for  defence,  was  filled  up  with  herb-gardens 
and  orchards  for  upwards  of  a  hundred  years.  Then  came 
the  aristocratic  guild  of  the  cross-bow  men — that  company 
TOL.  I — 9^ 


202  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTS. 

the  members  whereof  were  required  to  prove  their  noble  do 
scent  untainted  for  so  many  generations,  before  they  could 
be  admitted  into  the  guild ;  and,  being  admitted,  were  re- 
quired to  swear  a  solemn  oath,  that  no  other  pastime  or  ex- 
ercise should  take  up  any  part  of  their  leisure,  the  whole  of 
which  was  to  be  devoted  to  the  practice  of  the  noble  art  of 
shooting  with  the  cross-bow.  Once  a  year  a  grand  match 
was  held,  under  the  patronage  of  some  saint,  to  whose  church- 
steeple  was  affixed  the  bird,  or  semblance  of  a  bird,  to  be  hit 
by  the  victor.'^  The  conqueror  in  the  game  was  Koi  des 
Arbaletriers  for  the  coming  year,  and  received  a  jewelled 
decoration  accordingly,  which  he  was  entitled  to  wear  for 
twelve  months ;  after  which  he  restored  it  to  the  guild,  to  be 
again  striven  for.  The  family  of  him  who  died  during  the 
year  that  he  was  king,  were  bound  to  present  the  decoration 
to  the  church  of  the  patron  saint  of  the  guild,  and  to  furnish 
a  similar  prize  to  be  contended  for  afresh.  These  noble 
cross-bow  men  of  the  middle  ages  formed  a  sort  of  armed 
guard  to  the  powers  in  existence,  and  almost  invariably  took 
the  aristocratic,  in  preference  to  the  democratic  side,  in  the 
numerous  civil  dissensions  in  the  Flemish  towns.  Hence 
they  were  protected  by  the  authorities,  and  easily  obtained 
favorable  and  sheltered  sites  for  their  exercise  ground.  And 
thus  they  came  to   occupy  the   old  fosse,  and  took  possession 

*  Scott  describes  tlie  sport,  "  Sliooting  at  the  Popinjay,"  "  as  an  an- 
cient game  formerly  practised  with  archery,  hut  at  this  period  (1679) 
with  fire  arms.  This  was  the  figure  of  a  bird  decked  with  parti-coloured 
feathers,  so  as  to  resemble  a  popinjay  or  parrot.  It  was  suspended  to  a 
pole,  and  served  for  a  mark  at  which  the  competitors  discharged  their 
fusees  and  carbines  in  rotation,  at  the  distance  of  seventy  paces.  He 
whose  ball  brought  down  the  mark  held  the  proud  title  of  Captain  of 
the  Popinjay  for  the  remainder  of  the  day,  and  was  tist»ally  escorted  in 
triumph  to  the  most  respectable  change-house  in  the  neighbourhood, 
where  the  evening  was  closed  with  conviviality,  conducted  under  his 
auspices,  and,  if  he  was  able  to  maintain  it,  at  his  expense." — Old  Mortality 


THE   PENSIONNAT   OF   M.U)AME   IIEGER.  203 

of  tlie  great  orchard  of  the  hospital,  lying  tranquil  and  sunnj 
in  the  hollow  below  the  rampart. 

But,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  it  became  necessary  to  con- 
struct a  street  through  the  exercise-ground  of  the  "  Arbale- 
triers  du  Grand  Scrment,"  and,  after  much  delay,  the  com- 
pany were  induced  by  the  beloved  Infanta  Isabella  to  givo 
up  the  requisite  plot  of  ground.  In  recompense  for  this, 
Isabella — who  herself  was  a  member  of  the  guild,  and  had 
even  shot  down  the  bird,  and  been  Queen  in  1615 — made 
many  presents  to  the  arbaletriers ;  and,  in  return,  the  grate- 
ful city,  which  had  long  wanted  a  nearer  road  to  St.  Grudule, 
but  been  baffled  by  the  noble  archers,  called  the  street  after 
her  name.  She,  as  a  sort  of  indemnification  to  the  arbale- 
triers, caused  a  "  great  mansion"  to  be  built  for  their  accom- 
modation in  the  new  Rue  d'Isabelle.  This  mansion  was 
placed  in  front  of  their  exercise-ground,  and  was  of  a  square 
shape.     Chi  a  remote  part  of  the  walls,  may  still  be  read — 

PIIILLIPPO  Till.  HISPAN.  REGE.  ISABELLA-CLARA-EUGENIA  HIS- 
PAN.  INFANS.  MAGN.E  GULDiE  REGINA  GULDiE  ERATRIBUS  POSUIT. 

In  that  mansion  was  held  all  the  splendid  feasts  of  the 
Grand  Serment  des  Arbaletriers.  The  master-archer  lived 
there  constantly,  in  order  to  be  ever  at  hand  to  render  his 
services  to  the  guild.  The  great  saloon  was  also  used  for  the 
court  balls  and  festivals,  when  the  archers  were  not  admitted. 
The  Infanta  caused  other  and  smaller  houses  to  be  built  ir 
her  new  street,  to  serve  as  residences  for  her  "  garde  noble ;  " 
and  for  her  "  garde  bourgeoise,"  a  small  habitation  each, 
Some  of  which  still  remain,  to  remind  us  of  English  alms- 
houses. The  "  great  mansion,"  with  its  quadrangular  form; 
the  spacious  saloon — once  used  for  the  archducal  balls,  where 
the  dark  grave  Spaniards  mixed  with  the  blond  nobility  of 
Brabant  and  Flanders — now  a  school-room  for  Belgian  girls  ; 
the  cross-bow  men's  archery-ground — all  are  there — the  pen- 
si  onn  at  of  Madame  Heger. 


204  LIFE    OF   CIIAKLOTTE   P>RONTE. 

This  lady  was  assisted  in  the  work  of  instruction  bj  het 
husband — a  kindly,  wise,  good,  and  religious  man — whose 
acquaintance  I  am  glad  to  have  made,  and  who  has  furnished 
me  with  some  interesting  details,  from  his  wife's  recollections 
and  his  own,  of  the  two  Miss  Brontes  during  their  residence 
in  Brussels.  He  had  the  better  opportunities  of  watching 
them,  from  his  giving  lessons  in  the  French  language  and 
literature  in  the  schooL  A  short  extract  from  a  letter, 
written  to  me  by  a  French  lady  resident  in  Brussels,  and 
well  qualified  to  judge,  will  help  to  show  the  estimation  in 
which  he  is  held. 

^'  Je  ne  connais  pas  personellement  M.  Heger,  mais  je  sals 
qu'il  est  pen  de  caracteres  aussi  nobles,  aussi  admirables  que 
le  sien.  II  est  un  des  membres  les  plus  zeles  de  cette  So- 
ciete  de  S.  Vincent  de  Paul  dont  je  t'ai  deja  parle,  et  ne  se 
contente  pas  de  servir  les  pauvres  et  les  malades,  mais  leur 
consacre  encore  les  soirees.  Apres  des  journees  absorbees 
tout  entieres  par  les  devoirs  que  sa  place  lui  impose,  il  reunit 
les  pauvres,  les  ouvriers,  leur  donne  des  cours  gratuits,  et 
trouve  encore  le  moyen  de  les  amuser  en  les  instruisant.  Ce 
devouement  te  dira  assez  que  M.  Heger  est  profondement  et 
ouvertement  religieux.  II  a  des  manieres  franches  et  ave- 
nantes ;  il  se  fait  aimer  de  tons  ceux  qui  I'approchent,  et  sur- 
tout  des  enfants.  II  a  le  parole  facile,  et  possede  a  un  haut 
degre  Teloquence  d^i  bon  sens  et  du  coeur.  II  n'est  point; 
auteur.  Homme  de  zele  et  de  conscience,  il  vient  de  se 
demettre  des  fonctions  elevees  et  lucratives  qu'il  exercait  a* 
I'Athenee,  celles  de  Prefet  des  Etudes,  parcoqu'il  ne  pent  y 
realiser  le  bien  qui'l  avait  espere,  introduire  Tenseignement 
religieux  dans  le  programme  des  etudes.  J'ai  vu  une  fois 
Madame  Heger,  qui  a  quelque  chose  de  froid  et  de  compasse 
dans  son  maintien,  et  qui  pr^vient  peu  en  sa  faveur.  Je  la 
erois  pourtant  aimee  et  appreciee  par  ses  cleves.'' 


THE   EKONTE    SISTERS    AT   BKUSSELS.  205 

There  were  from  eighty  to  a  hundred  pupils  in  the  pen- 
Bionnat,  when  Charlotte  and  Emily  Bronte  entered  in  Febru- 
ary 1842. 

M.  Heger's  account  is  that  they  knew  nothing  of  French. 
I  suspect  they  knew  as  much  (or  as  little)  for  all  conversa- 
tional purposes,  as  any  English  girls  do,  who  have  never  been 
abroad,  and  have  only  learnt  the  idioms  and  pronunciation 
from  an  Englishwoman.  The  two  sisters  clung  together, 
and  kept  apart  from  the  herd  of  happy,  boisterous,  well- 
befriended  Belgian  girls,  who,  in  their  turn,  thought  the  new 
English  pupils  wild  and  scared-looking,  with  strange,  odd, 
insular  ideas  about  dress ;  for  Emily  had  taken  a  fancy  to 
the  fashion,  ugly  and  preposterous  even  during  its  reign,  of 
gigot  sleeves,  and  persisted  in  wearing  them  long  after  they 
were  '^  gone  out."  Her  petticoats,  too,  had  not  a  curve  or  a 
wave  in  them,  but  hung  down  straight  and  long,  clinging  to 
her  lank  figure.  The  sisters  spoke  to  no  one  but  from  ne- 
cessity. They  were  too  full  of  earnest  thought,  and  of  the 
exile's  sick  yearning,  to  be  ready  for  careless  conversation,  or 
merry  game.  M.  Heger,  who  had  done  little  but  observe, 
during  the  few  first  weeks  of  their  residence  in  the  Eue  d'lsa- 
belle,  perceived  that  with  their  unusual  characters,  and  ex- 
traordinary talents,  a  different  mode  must  be  adopted  from 
that  in  which  he  generally  taught  French  to  English  girls. 
He  seems  to  have  rated  Emily's  genius  as  something  even 
higher  than  Charlotte's ;  and  her  estimation  of  their  relative 
powers  was  the  same.  Emily  had  a  head  for  logic,  and  a 
capability  of  argument,  unusual  in  a  man,  and  rare  indeed  in 
a  woman,  according  to  M.  Heger.  Impairing  the  force  of 
this  gift,  was  her  stubborn  tenacity  of  will,  which  rendered 
her  obtuse  to  all  reasoning  where  her  own  wishes,  or  her  own 
sense  of  right,  was  concerned.  '^  She  should  have  been  a 
man — a  great  navigator,"  said  M.  Heger  in  speaking  of  her. 
"  Her  powerful  reason  would  have  deduced  new  spheres  of 


206  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

discovery  from  the  knowledge  of  the  old ;  and  her  strong, 
imperious  will  would  never  have  been  daunted  by  opposition 
or  difficulty;  never  have  given  way  but  with  life."  And 
yet,  moreover,  her  faculty  of  imagination  was  such  that,  if 
she  had  written  a  history,  her  view  of  scenes  and  characters 
would  have  been  so  vivid,  and  so  powerf^xlly  expressed,  and 
supported  by  such  a  show  of  argument,  that  it  would  have 
dominated  over  the  reader,  whatever  might  have  been  his 
previous  opinions,  or  his  cooler  perceptions  of  its  truth.  But 
she  appeared  egotistical  and  exacting  compared  to  Charlotte, 
w^ho  was  always  unselfish  (this  is  M.  Heger's  testimony) ; 
and  in  the  anxiety  of  the  elder  to  make  her  younger  sister 
contented,  she  allowed  her  to  exercise  a  kind  of  unconscious 
tyranny  over  her. 

After  consulting  with  his  wife,  M.  Heger  told  them  that 
he  meant  to  dispense  with  the  old  method  of  grounding  in 
grammar,  vocabulary,  &c.,  and  to  proceed  on  a  new  plan — - 
something  similar  to  what  he  had  occasionally  adopted  with 
the  elder  among  his  French  and  Belgian  pupils.  He  pro- 
posed to  read  to  them  some  of  the  master-pieces  of  the  most 
celebrated  French  authors  (such  as  Casimir  de  la  Vigne's 
poem  on  the  "  Death  of  Joan  of  Arc,"  parts  of  Bossuet,  the 
admirable  translation  of  the  noble  letter  of  St.  Ignatius  to 
the  Boman  Christians  in  the  '^  Bibliotheque  Choisie  dcs 
Peres  de  V  Eglise,  &c.),  and  after  having  thus  impressed  the 
complete  effect  of  the  whole,  to  analyze  the  parts  with  them, 
pointing  out  in  what  such  or  such  an  author  excelled,  and 
where  were  the  blemishes.  He  believed  that  he  had  to  do 
srith  pupils  capable,  from  their  ready  sympathy  with  the  in- 
tellectual, the  refined,  the  polished,  or  the  noble,  of  catching 
the  echo  of  a  style,  and  so  reproducing  their  own  thoughts  in 
ft  somewhat  similar  manner. 

After  explaining  his  plan  to  them,  he  awaited  their  reply. 
Emily  spoke  first ;  and  said  that  she  saw  no  good  to  be  do- 


IIER   IMPKESSIONS   OF   THE   BRUSSELS    SCilOOL.       207 

rived  from  it ;  and  that,  by  adopting  it,  they  should  lose  all 
originality  of  thought  and  expression.  She  would  have  en- 
tered into  an  argument  on  the  subject,  but  for  this,  M.  Heger 
had  no  time.  Charlotte  then  spoke ;  she  also  doubted  the 
success  of  the  plan ;  but  she  would  follow  out  M.  Heger 's 
advice,  because  she  was  bound  to  obey  him  while  she  was  his 
pupil.  Before  speaking  of  the  results,  it  may  be  desirable  to 
give  an  extract  from  one  of  her  letters,  which  shows  some  of 
her  first  impressions  of  her  new  life 

''  Brussels,  1842  {Maij  .?) 
*^  I  was  twenty-six  years  old  a  week  or  two  since ;  and  at 
this  ripe  time  of  life  I  am  a  school-girl,  and,  on  the  whole, 
very  happy  in  that  capacity.  It  felt  very  strange  at  first  to 
submit  to  authority  instead  of  exercising  it — to  obey  orders 
instead  of  giving  them  ;  but  I  like  that  state  of  things,  I 
returned  to  it  with  the  same  avidity  that  a  cow,  that  has  long 
been  kept  on  dry  hay,  returns  to  fresh  grass.  Don't  laugh  at 
my  simile.  It  is  natural  to  me  to  submit,  and  very  unnatu- 
ral to  command. 

''  This  is  a  large  school,  in  which  there  are  about  forty  ex- 
ternes,  or  day-pupils,  and  twelve  pensionnaires,  or  boarders. 
Madame  Heger,  the  head,  is  a  lady  of  precisely  the  same  cast 
of  mind^  degree  of  cultivation,   and  quality  of  intellect  as 

Miss .     I  think  the  severe  points  are  a  little  softened, 

because  she  has  not  been  disappointed,  and  consequently 
soured.  In  a  word,  she  is  a  married  instead  of  a  maiden 
lady.  There  are  three  teachers  in  the  school — Mademoiselle 
Blanche,  Mademoiselle  Sophie,  and  Mademoiselle  Marie. 
The  two  first  have  no  particular  character.  One  is  an  old 
maid,  and  the  other  will  be  one.  Mademoiselle  Marie  is 
talented  and  original,  but  of  repulsive  and  arbitrary  manners, 
which  have  made  the  whole  school,  except  myself  and  Emily, 
er  bitter  enemies.     No  less  than  seven  masters  attend,  to 


20S  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

teach  the  different  branches  of  education — French,  Drawing, 
Music,  Singing,  Writing,  Arithmetic,  and  German.  All  in 
the  house  are  Catholics  except  ourselves,  one  other  girl,  and 
the  gouvernante  of  Madame's  children,  an  Englishwoman,  in 
rank  something  between  a  lady's-maid  and  a  nursery  govern- 
ess. The  difference  in  country  and  religion  makes  a  broad 
line  of  demarcation  between  us  and  all  the  rest.  We  are 
completely  isolated  in  the  midst  of  numbers.  Yet  I  think  I 
am  never  unhappy ;  my  present  life  is  so  delightful,  so  con- 
genial to  my  own  nature,  compared  to  that  of  a  governess. 
My  time,  constantly  occupied,  passes  too  rapidly.  Hitherto 
both  Emily  and  I  have  had  good  health,  and  therefore  we 
have  been  able  to  work  well.  There  is  one  individual  of 
whom  I  have  not  yet  spoken — M.  Heger,  the  husband  of 
Madame.  He  is  professor  of  rhetoric,  a  man  of  power  as  to 
mind,  but  very  choleric  and  irritable  in  temperament.  He 
is  very  angry  with  me  just  at  present,  because  I  have  written 
a.  translation  which  he  chose  to  stigmatize  as  ^  jpeu  correct,^ 
He  did  not  tell  me  so,  but  wrote  the  word  on  the  margin  of 
my  book,  and  asked,  in  brief  stern  phrase,  how  it  happened 
that  my  compositions  were  always  better  than  my  transla- 
tions ?  adding  that  the  thing  seemed  to  him  inexplicable. 
The  fact  is,  some  weeks  ago,  in  a  high-flown  humour,  he  for- 
bade me  to  use  either  dictionary  or  grammar  in  translating 
the  most  difficult  English  compositions  into  French.  This 
makes  the  task  rather  arduous,  and  compels  me  every  now 
and  then  to  introduce  an  English-word,  which  nearly  plucks 
the  eyes  out  of  his  head  when  he  sees  it.  Emily  and  he 
don't  draw  well  together  at  all.  Emily  works  like  a  horse, 
and  she  has  had  great  difficulties  to  contend  with — far  greater 
than  I  have  had.  Indeed,  those  who  come  to  a  French 
school  for  instruction  ought  previously  to  have  aci^uired  a 
considerable  knowledge  of  the  French  language,  otherwise 
they  will  lose  a  great  deal  of  time,  for  the  course  of  instruc 


M.  h^ger's  method  of  teaching.  209 

fcion  is  adapted  to  natives  and  not  to  foreigners ;  and  in  these 
large  establishments  thej  will  not  change  their  ordinary 
course  for  one  or  two  strangers.  The  few  private  lessons 
tliat  M.  Heger  has  vouchsafed  to  give  us,  are,  I  suppose,  to 
be  considered  a  great  favour ;  and  I  can  perceive  they  have 
already  excited  much  spite  and  jealousy  in  the  school. 

"  You  will  abuse  this  letter  for  being  short  and  dreary, 
and  there  are  a  hundred  things  which  I  want  to  tell  you,  but 
I  have  not  time.  Brussels  is  a  beautiful  city.  The  Belgians 
hate  the  English.  Their  external  morality  is  more  rigid 
than  ours.  To  lace  the  stays  without  a  handkerchief  on  the 
neck  is  considered  a  disgusting  piece  of  indelicacy." 

The  passage  in  this  letter  where  M.  Heger  is  represented 
as  prohibiting  the  use  of  dictionary  or  grammar,  refers,  T 
imagine,  to  the  time  I  have  mentioned,  when  he  determined 
to  adopt  a  new  method  of  instruction  in  the  French  language, 
of  which  they  were  to  catch  the  spirit  and  rhythm  rather  from 
the  ear  and  the  heart,  as  its  noblest  accents  fell  upon  them, 
than  by  over-careful  and  anxious  study  of  its  grammatical 
rules.  It  seems  to  me  a  daring  experiment  on  the  part  of 
their  teacher  ;  but,  doubtless,  he  knew  his  ground  ;  and  that 
it  answered  is  evident  in  the  composition  of  some  of  Char- 
lotte's ^'  devoirs,"  written  about  this  time.  I  am  tempted, 
in  illustration  of  this  season  of  mental  culture,  to  recur  to  a 
conversation  which  I  had  with  M.  Heger  on  the  manner  in 
which  he  formed  his  pupils'  style,  and  to  give  a  proof  of  his 
success,  by  copying  a  ''  devoir  "  of  Charlotte's,  with  his  re- 
marks upon  it. 

He  told  me  that  one  day  this  summer  (when  the  Brontes 
had  been  for  about  four  months  receiving  instruction  from 
him)  he  read  to  them  Victor  Hugo's  celebrated  portrait  of 
Mirabcau,  "  mais,  dans  ma  legon  je  me  bornais  a  ce  qui  con- 
cernc  Mirabeau  Oroieur.     C'est  apres  I'analyse  de  ce  mor- 


210  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

^eau,  considero  surtout  du  point  de  vue  du  fond,  de  la  dis 
position,  de  ce  qu'on  pourrait  appeler  la  charjpente  qu'onfc 
Gte  faits  les  deux  portraits  que  je  vous  donne."  He  went  on 
to  say  that  he  had  pointed  out  to  them  the  fault  in  Victor 
Hugo's  style  as  being  exaggeration  in  conception,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  he  had  made  them  notice  the  extreme  beauty  of 
his  "  nuances  "  of  expression.  They  were  then  dismissed  to 
choose  the  subject  of  a  similar  kind  of  portrait.  This  selec- 
tion M.  Heger  always  left  to  them ;  for  ^'  it  is  necessary," 
he  observed,  '^  before  sitting  down  to  write  on  a  subject,  to 
have  thoughts  and  feelings  about  it.  I  cannot  tell  on  what 
subject  your  heart  and  mind  have  been  excited.  I  must 
leave  that  to  you."  The  marginal  comments,  I  need  hardly 
say,  are  M.  Heger's ;  the  words  in  italics  are  Charlotte's,  for 
which  he  substitutes  a  better  form  of  expression,  which  is 
placed  between  brackets. 

Imitation. 

'' Lg  ^IJuillet,  1842. 
Portrait  de  Pieriie  l'Hermite.       Charlotte 
Bronte. 

^'  De  temps  en  temps,  il  parait  sur  la  terre  des 
pourquoi  cette  hommes  destines  a  etre  les  instruments  [predes- 
suppressiori .   ^j^^^g j  ^q  grands  changements,  moreaux  ou  poli- 
tiques.     Quelquefois  c'est  un  conquerant,  un  Al- 
exandre ou  un  Attila,  qui  passe  comme  un  oura- 
gan,  et  purifie  I'atmosphere  moral,  comme  Forage 
purifie  I'atmosphere  physique  ;  quelquefois,  c'est 
un  revolutionnaire,  un  Cromwell,  ou  un  Robes- 
€B  fautea    et  pierre,  qui  fait  expier  par  un  roi^  les  vices  de 
toute  une  dynastic ;  quelquefois  c'est  un  enthou- 
siaste   religieux  comme   Mahomete,   ou   Pierre 
I'Ermite,  qui,  avec  le  seul   levier  de  la  penseo 


AN   EXERCISE   m   FRENCH    COMPOSITION  211 

jsouleve  des  nations  entieres,  les  deracine  et  les 

transplante  dans  des  climats  nouveaux,  ^euplant  Ce  detail  ne 

rAsie  avec  les  habitants  de  V Europe,     Pierre  ""^^"^^^  '^''''^ 

I'Ermite    etait    gentilhomme    de    Picardie,    en  inutile  ouand 

Prance,  pourquoi  done  n  a-t-il  passe  sa  vie  comme  vous     ccrivez 

les  autres  gentilhommes   ses  contemporains  ont 

passe  la  leur,  a  table,  a  la  cliasse,  dans  son  lit, 

sans  s'inquieter  de  Saladin,  ou  de  ses  Sarrasins  ?  * 

N'est-ce  pas,  parcequ'il  y  a  dans  certaines  natures, 

une  ardeur  [un  foyer  d'activite]  indomptable 

qui  ne  leur  permet  pas  de  rester  inactives,  qui  Vons    avcz 

les  force  a  se  remuer  afin  d''exercer  les  facultes^^^^^^^?^ 

puissantesj  qui  msme   en  dormant  so7it  pretesFierre :    vous 

comme  Sampson  a  briser  les  nceuds  qui  les  re-  ^^^^  ,   ^^}^f^ 
■^  -^  dans  le  sujet : 

tiennent  ?  marchez      au 

"  Pierre  prit  la  profession  des  amies ;  si  son  ^^*' 

ardeur  avait  He  de  cette  espece  [si  il  n'avait  eu 

que  cette  ardeur  vulgaire]  qui  provient  d'une 

robuste  sante  il  aurait  [c'eut]  etc  un  brave  mili- 

taire,  et  rien  de  plus ;  mais  son  ardeur  etait  celle 

de  I'ame,  sa  flamme  etait  pure  et  elle  s'elevait 

vers  le  ciel. 

'^  Sans  doute  [II  est  vrai  que]   la  jeunesse 

de   Pierre,    etait   [fut]    troublee   par    passions 

orageuses  ;  les  natures  puissantes  sont  extremes 

en  tout,  elles  ne  eonnaissent  la  tiedeur  ni  dans 

le  bien,  ni  dans  le  mal ;  Pierre  done  cherclia 

d'abord  avidement  la  gloire  qu^  se  fletrit,  et  les 

plaisirs  qui  trompent,  mais  il  Jit  bientot  la  de- 

couverte  [bient6t  il  s'aper^ut]  que  ce  qu'il  pour- 

suivait  n'etait  qu'  une  illusion  a  laquelle  il  ne  inutile 

pourrait  jamais  atteindre  ;  il  retourna  done  sur  quand      yous 

Tj ^ T     1        •  •    avez  dit  illu- 

ses  pas,  il  recommenca  le  voyage  de  la  vie,  mais  gj^n 

*"itte  fois  il  evita  le  chemin  spacieux  qui  mcne  a 


212  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

la  perdition  et  il  prit  le  cliemin  etroit  qui  nieiie 
a  la  vie;  jpuisque  [comme]  le  trajet  etait  long 
et  difficile  il  jeta  la  casque  et  les  armes  du  soldat, 
et  se  vetit  de  I'habit  simple  du  moine.  A  la  vie 
militaire  succeda  la  vie  monastique,  car,  les  ex- 
tremes se  touclient  et  cTiez  Vhomme  sincere  la 
sincerite  du  repentir  amene  [necessairement  a  la 
suite]  avec  lui  la  rigueur  de  la  penitence.  [ Voila 
done  Pierre  devena  moine  !] 

"  Mais  Pierre  [il]  avait  en  lui  un  principe 
qui  Fempechait  de  rester  long-temps  inactif,  ses 
idees,  sur  quel  sujet  quHl  soit  [que  ce  fut]  ne 
pouvaient  pas  etre  bornees ;  il  ne  lui  suffisait  pas 
que  lui-meme  fut  religieux,  que  lui-meme  fut  eon- 
vaincee  de  la  realite  de  Christianisme  (sic)  il 
fallait  que  toute  I'Europe  que  toute  I'Asie  par- 
tagea  sa  conviction  et  professat  la  croyance  de  la 
Croix.  La  Piete  [fervente]  elevee  par  le  Genie, 
nourrie  par  la  Solitude  fit  naitre  une  es;pece 
cf  inspiration  [exalta  son  ame  jusqu'a  I'inspira- 
tion]  dans  son  ame^  et  lorsqu'il  quitta  sa  cellule 
et  reparut  dans  le  monde,  il  portait  comme  Moise 
I'empreinte  de  la  Divinite  sur  son  front,  et  tout 
[tons]  reconnurent  en  lui  la  veritable  apotre  de 
la  Croix. 

"  Mahomet  n'avait  jamais  remue  les  molles 
nations  de  T  Orient  comme  alors  Pierre  remua 
les  peuples  austeres  de  I'Occident ;  il  fallait  que 
cette  eloquence  fut  d'une  force  presque  miracu- 
leuse  qui  pouvait  [presqu'elle]  persuad(?r  [aitj 
aux  rois  de  vendre  leurs  royaumes  afin  de  pro- 
curer [pour  avoir]  des  armes  et  des  soldats  pour 
aider  [a  offrir]  a  Pierre  dans  la  guerre  sainte 
qu'il  voulait  livrer  aux  iufideles.     La  puissanc 


AN   EXERCSE    IN   FEENCII   OOMrOSITION.  213 

(le  Pierre  [TErmite]  n'etait  nullement  une  puis- 
sance physique,  car  la  nature,  ou  pour  mieux 
dire,  Dieu  est  impartial  dans  la  distribution  de 
ses  dons;  il  accorde  a  I'un  de  ses  enfants  la 
grace,  la  beaute,  les  perfections  corporelles,  a 
Fautre  I'esprit.^  la  grandeur  morale.  Pierre  done 
etait  un  bomme,  petit  d'une  pbysionomie  peu 
agr cable ;  mais  il  avait  ce  courage,  cette  con- 
stance,  cet  enthousiasme,  cette  energie  de  senti- 
ment qui  ecrase  toute  opposition,  et  qui  fait  que 
la  volonte  d'un,  seul  homme  devient  la  loi  de 
toute  une  nation.  Pour  se  former  une  juste 
idee  de  I'influence  qu'exer^a  cet  bomme  sur  les 
caracteres  [cboses]  et  les  idees  de  son  temps  il 
faut  se  le  representor  au  milieu  de  Tarmee  des 
croisees,  dans  son  double  role  de  propbete  et  de 
guerrier ;  le  pauvre  bermite  vetu  du  ^auvre  [de 
rbumble]  babit  gris  est  la  plus  puissant  qu'un 
roi ;  il  est  entoure  d'une  [de  la]  multitude 
[abide]  une  multitude  qui  ne  voit  que  lui,  tandis 
que  lui,  il  ne  voit  que  le  ciel ;  ses  yeux  leves  sem- 
blent  dire,  '  Je  vois  Dieu  et  les  anges,  et  j'ai 
perdu  de  vue  la  terre  ! ' 

"  Dans  ce  moment  le  [mais  ce]  pauvre  Jiahit 
[froc]  gris  est  pour  lui  comme  le  manteau  d'Eli- 
jab  ;  il  Penveloppe  d'inspiration  ;  il  [Pierre]  lit 
dans  Pavenir;  il  voit  Jerusalem  delivree;  [il 
voit]  le  saint  sepulcbre  libre ;  il  voit  le  crois- 
sant argent  est  arracbe  du  Temple,  et  I'Ori- 
flamme  et  la  Croix  rouge  sont  etabli  d  sa  place ; 
non  seulement  Pierre  voit  ces  merveilles,  mais 
il  les  fait  voir  a  tous  ceux  qui  I'entourent,  il 
ravive  I'esperance,  et  le  courage  dans  [tous  ces 
corps  epuises  de  fatigues  et  de  privations]  La 


314  LIFE    OF    CHARLOTTE   BRONTJ^. 

bataille  ne  sera  livree  que  demain,  mais  la  vie 
toire  est  decidee  ce  soir.  Pierre  a  promis ;  et 
les  Croisees  se  fient  a  sa  parole,  comme  les 
Israelites  se  fiaient  a  celle  de  Moise  et  d€ 
Josue.'' 

As  a  companion  portrait  to  this,  Emily  chose  to  depict 
Harold  on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Hastings.  It  appears  to 
me,  that  her  devoir  is  superior  to  Charlotte's  in  power  and 
in  imagination,  and  fully  equal  to  it  in  language ;  and  that 
this,  in  both  cases,  considering  how  little  practical  know- 
ledge of  French  they  had  when  they  arrived  at  Brussels  in 
February,  and  that  they  wrote  without  the  aid  of  dictionary 
or  grammar,  is  unusual  and  remarkable.  We  shall  see  the 
progress  Charlotte  had  made,  in  ease  and  grace  of  style,  a 
year  later. 

In  the  choice  of  subjects  left  to  her  selection,  she  fre- 
quently took  characters  and  scenes  from  the  Old  Testament, 
with  which  all  her  writings  show  that  she  was  especially 
familiar.  The  picturesqueness  and  colour  (if  I  may  so  ex- 
press it),  the  grandeur  and  breadth  of  its  narrations,  im- 
pressed her  deeply.  To  use  M.  Heger's  expression,  "  Elle 
etait  nourrie  de  la  Bible."  After  he  had  read  De  la  Vigne's 
poem  on  Joan  of  Arc,  she  chose  the  "  Vision  and  Death  of 
Moses  on  Mount  Nebo  "  to  write  about ;  and,  in  looking  over 
this  devoir,  I  was  much  struck  with  one  or  two  of  M.  Heger's 
remarks.  After  describing,  in  a  quiet  and  simple  manner, 
the  circumstances  under  which  Moses  took  leave  of  the 
Israelites,  her  imagination  becomes  warmed,  and  she  launches 
out  into  a  noble  strain,  depicting  the  glorious  futurity  of 
the  Chosen  People,  as  looking  down  upon  the  Promised 
Land,  he  sees  their  prosperity  in  prophetic  vision.  But, 
before  reaching  the  middle  of  this  glowing  description,  she 
interrupts  herself  to  discuss  for  a  moment  the  doubts  that 


M.    IlEaEn's    PLAN    OF   INSTRUCTION.  215 

have  been  thrown  on  tlie  miraculous  relations  of  tlie  Old 
Testament.  M.  Heger  remarks,  "  When  you  are  writing, 
place  your  argument  first  in  cool,  prosaic  language;  but 
when  you  have  thrown  the  reins  on  the  neck  of  your  imagina- 
tion, do  not  pull  her  up  to  reason."  Again  in  the  vision  of 
Moses,  he  sees  the  maidens  leading  forth  their  flocks  to  the 
wells  at  eventide,  and  they  are  described  as  wearing  flowery 
garlands.  Here  the  writer  is  reminded  of  the  necessity  of 
preserving  a  certain  verisimilitude  :  Moses  might  from  his 
elevation  see  mountains  and  plains,  groups  of  maidens  and 
herds  of  cattle,  but  could  hardly  perceive  the  details  of 
dress,  or  the  ornaments  of  the  head. 

When  they  had  made  further  progress,  M.  Heger  took 
up  a  more  advanced  plan,  that  of  synthetical  teaching.  He 
would  read  to  them  various  accounts  of  the  same  person  or 
event,  and  make  them  notice  the  points  of  agreement  and 
disagreement.  Where  they  were  different,  he  would  make 
them  seek  the  origin  of  that  difierence  by  causing  them  to 
examine  well  into  the  character  and  position  of  each  separate 
writer,  and  how  they  would  be  likely  to  afiect  his  conception 
of  truth.  For  instance,  take  Cromwell.  He  would  read 
Bossuet's  description  of  him  in  the  "  Oraison  Funebre  de  la 
Eeine  d' Angle terre,"  and  show  how  in  this  he  was  considered 
entirely  from  the  religious  point  of  view,  as  an  instrument 
in  the  hands  of  God,  pre-ordained  to  His  work.  Then  he 
would  make  them  read  Guizot,  and  see  how,  in  his  view, 
Cromwell  was  endowed  with  the  utmost  power  of  free  will, 
but  governed  by  no  higher  motive  than  that  of  expediency; 
while  Carlyle  regarded  him  as  a  character  regulated  by  a 
strong  and  conscientious  desire  to  do  the  will  of  the  Lord. 
Then  he  would  desire  them  to  remember  that  the  Eoyalist 
and  Commonwealth  man  had  each  their  different  opinions  of 
the  great  Protector.     And  from  these  conflicting  characters 


216     .  LIFE   OF   CIIAELOTTE   BEONTE. 

he  would  require  them  to  sift  and  collect  the  elements  of 
truth,  and  try  to  unite  them  into  a  perfect  whole. 

This  kind  of  exercise  delighted  Charlotte.  It  called 
into  play  her  powers  of  analysis,  which  were  extraordinary, 
and  she  very  soon  excelled  in  it. 

Wherever  the  Brontes  could  be  national  they  were  so, 
with  the  same  tenacity  of  attachment  which  made  them 
Buffer  as  they  did  whenever  they  left  Haworth.  They  were 
Protestant  to  the  backbone  in  other  things  besides  their 
religion,  but  pre-eminently  so  in  that.  Touched  as  Char- 
lotte was  by  the  letter  of  St.  Ignatius  before  alluded  to,  she 
claimed  equal  self-devotion,  and  from  as  high  a  motive,  for 
some  of  the  missionaries  of  the  English  Church  sent  out  to 
toil  and  to  perish  on  the  poisonous  African  coast,  and  wrote 
as  an  "  imitation,"  "  Lettre  d'un  Missionaire,  Sierra  Leone, 
Afrique." 

Something  of  her  feeling,  too.  appears  in  the  following 
letter : — 

"  Brussels,  1842. 
"  I  consider  it  doubtful  whether  I  shall  come  home  in 
September  or  not.  Madame  Heger  has  made  a  proposal  for 
both  me  and  Emily  to  stay  another  half  year,  offering  to  dis- 
miss her  English  master,  and  take  me  as  English  teacher ;  also 
to  employ  Emily  some  part  of  each  day  in  teaching  music  to 
a  certain  number  of  the  pupils.  For  these  services  we  arc 
to  be  allowed  to  continue  our  studies  in  French  and  German, 
and  to  have  board,  &c.,  without  paying  for  it ;  no  salaries, 
however,  are  offered.  The  proposal  is  kind,  and  in  a  great 
selfish  city  like  Brussels,  and  a  great  selfish  school,  contain- 
ing nearly  ninety  pupils  (boarders  and  day-pupils  included), 
mplies  a  degree  of  interest  which  demands  gratitude  in  re- 
urn.  I  am  inclined  to  accept  it.  What  think  you  ?  I 
donH   deny  I  sometimes  wish  to  be  in  England,  or  that  I 


HER   IMPKESSIONS   OF   THE   BELGIANS.  217 

have  brief  attacks  of  home  sickness ;  but  on  the  whole,  1 
have  borne  a  very  valiant  heart  so  far  ;  and  I  have  been 
happy  in  Brussels,  because  I  have  always  been  fully  occupied  * 
with  the  employments  that  I  like.  Emily  is  making  rapid 
progress  in  French,  German,  music,  and  drawing.  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Heger  begin  to  recognise  the  valuable  parts  of 
her  character,  under  her  singularities.  If  the  national  char- 
acter of  the  Belgians  is  to  be  measured  by  the  character  of 
most  of  the  girls  in  this  school,  it  is  a  character  singularly 
cold,  selfish,  animal,  and  inferior.  They  are  very  mutinous 
and  difficult  for  the  teachers  to  manage ;  and  their  princi- 
ples are  rotten  to  the  core.  We  avoid  them,  which  it  is 
not  difficult  to  do,  as  we  have  the  brand  of  Protestantism 
and  Anglicism  upon  us.  People  talk  of  the  danger  which 
Protestants  expose  themselves  to,  in  going  to  reside  in 
Catholic  countries,  and  thereby  running  the  chance  of  chang- 
ing their  faith.  My  advice  to  all  Protestants  who  are  tempt- 
ed to  do  anything  so  besotted  as  turn  Catholics  is,  to  walk 
over  the  sea  on  to  the  Continent ;  to  attend  mass  sedulously 
for  a  time ;  to  note  well  the  mummeries  thereof;  also  the 
idiotic,  mercenary  aspect  of  all  the  priests;  and  tJien^  if 
they  are  still  disposed  to  consider  Papistry  in  any  other  light 
than  a  most  feeble,  childish  piece  of  humbug,  let  them  turn 
Papists  at  once — that's  all.  I  eonsider  Methodism,  Quaker- 
ism, and  the  extremes  of  High  and  Low  Churchism  foolish, 
but  Roman  Catholicism  beats  them  all.  At  the  same  time, 
allow  me  to  tell  you,  that  there  are  some  Catholics  who  are 
as  good  as  any  Christians  can  be  to  whom  the  Bible  is  a 
sealed  book,  and  much  better  than  many  Protestants." 

"When  the  Brontes  first  went  to  Brussels,  it  was  with  the 

intention  of  remaiDing    there  for  six   months,  or  until  the 

grandes  vaca '/ices  hegan  in   September.     The  duties  of  the 

fichool  were  then  suspended  for  six  weeks  or  two  months,  and 

VOL.  I. — 10 


218  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

it  seemed  a  desirable  period  for  tlieir  return.  But  the  prO" 
posal  mentioned  in  the  foregoing  letter  altered  their  plans. 
Besides,  they  were  happy  in  the  feeling  that  they  were  making 
progress  in  all  the  knowledge  they  had  so  long  been  yearning 
to  acquire.  They  were  happy,  too,  in  possessing  friends 
whose  society  had  been  for  years  congenial  to  them ;  and  in 
occasional  meetings  with  these,  they  could  have  the  inex- 
pressible solace  to  residents  in  a  foreign  country — and  pecu- 
liarly such  to  the  Brontes — of  talking  over  the  intelligence 
received  from  their  respective  homes — referring  to  past,  or 
planning  for  future  days.  Mary  and  her  sister,  the  bright, 
dancing,  laughing  Martha,  were  parlour-boarders  in  an  es- 
tablishment just  beyond  the  barriers  of  Brussels.  Again, 
the  cousins  of  these  friends  were  resident  in  the  town ;  and 
at  their  house  Charlotte  and  Emily  were  always  welcome, 
though  their  overpowering  shyness  prevented  their  more 
valuable  qualities  from  being  known,  and  generally  kept 
them  silent.  They  spent  their  weekly  holiday  with  this  fami- 
ly, for  many  months ;  but  at  the  end  of  the  time,  Emily  was 
as  impenetrable  to  friendly  advances  as  at  the  beginning ; 
while  Charlotte  was  too  physically  weak  (as  Mary  has  ex- 
pressed it)  to  "  gather  up  her  forces  "  sufficiently  to  express 
any  difference  or  opposition  of  opinion,  and  had  consequently 
an  assenting  and  deferential  manner,  strangely  at  variance 
with  what  they  knew  of  her  remarkable  talents  and  decided 
character.  At  this  house,  the  T.'s  and  the  Brontes  could 
look  forward  to  meeting  each  other  pretty  frequently.  There 
was  another  English  family  where  Charlotte  soon  became  a 
welcome  guest,  and  where,  I  suspect,  she  felt  herself  more  at 
her  ease  than  either  at  Mrs.  Jenkins',  or  the  friends  whom  I 
have  first  mentioned. 

An  English  physician,  with  a  large  family  of  daughters 
went  to  reside  at  Brussels,  for  the  sake  of  their  education 
Tic  pk^ed   them  j^t  Madame  Heger's  school  in    July,  18-1:2 


AKEANGEMENTS    OF   THE   PENSIOxXNAT.  219 

not  a  month  before  the  beginning  of  the  grandes  vacance^ 
on  August  15th.  In  order  to  make  the  most  of  their  time, 
and  become  accustomed  to  the  language,  these  English 
sisters  went  daily,  through  the  holidays,  to  the  pensionnat 
in  the  Eue  d'Isabelle.  Six  or  eight  boarders  remained, 
besides  the  Miss  Brontes.  They  were  there  during  the  whole 
time,  never  even  having  the  break  to  their  monotonous  life, 
which  passing  an  occasional  day  with  a  friend  would  have 
afforded  them ;  but  devoting  themselves  with  indefatigable 
diligence  to  the  different  studies  in  which  they  were  engaged. 
Their  position  in  the  school  appeared,  to  these  new  comers, 
analogous  to  what  is  often  called  a  parlour-boarder.  They 
prepared  their  French,  drawing,  German,  and  literature  for 
their  various  masters ;  and  to  these  occupations  Emily  added 
that  of  music,  in  which  she  was  somewhat  of  a  proficient ;  so 
much  so  as  to  be  qualified  to  give  instruction  in  it  to  the 
three  younger  sisters  of  my  informant. 

The  school  was  divided  into  three  classes.  In  the  first, 
were  from  fifteen  to  twenty  pupils  ;  in  the  second,  sixty  was 
about  the  average  number — all  foreigners,  excepting  the  two 
Brontes  and  one  other  ;  in  the  third,  there  were  from  twenty 
to  thirty  pupils.  The  first  and  second  classes  occupied  a 
long  room,  divided  by  a  wooden  partition ;  in  each  division 
were  four  long  ranges  of  desks ;  and  at  the  end  was  the 
estradCj  or  platform  for  the  presiding  instructor.  On  the 
last  row,  in  the  quietest  corner,  sat  Charlotte  and  Emily, 
side  by  side,  so  deeply  absorbed  in  their  studies  as  to  be  in- 
sensible to  any  noise  or  movement  around  them.  The  school- 
hours  were  from  nine  to  twelve  (the  luncheon  hour),  when 
the  boarders  and  half-boarders — perhaps  two-and-thirty  girls 
■ — went  to  the  refectoire  (a  room  with  two  long  tables,  having 
an  oil-lamp  suspended  over  each),  to  partake  of  bread  and 
fruit;  the  externeSj  or  morning  pupils,  who  had  brought 
(heir  own  refreshment  with  them,  adjourning  to  cat  it  in  tho 


220  LITE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

garden.  From  one  to  two,  there  was  fancy-work — a  pupil 
reading  aloud  some  light  literature  in  each  room  ;  from  two 
to  four,  lessons  again.  At  four,  the  ext ernes  left ;  and  the 
remaining  girls  dined  in  the  refectoire,  M.  and  Madame 
Ileger  presiding.  From  five  to  six  there  was  recreation ; 
from  six  to  seven  preparation  for  lessons ;  and,  after  that, 
succeeded  the  lecture  pieuse — Charlotte's  night-mare.  On 
rare  occasions,  M.  Heger  himself  would  come  in,  and  sub- 
stitute a  book  of  a  different  and  more  interesting  kind.  At 
eight,  there  was  a  slight  meal  of  water  and  pistolcts  (the 
delicious  little  Brussels  rolls),  which  was  immediately  fol- 
lowed by  prayers,  and  then  to  bed. 

The  principal  bed-room  was  over  the  long  classe,  or 
echool-room.  There  were  six  or  eight  narrow  beds  on  each 
side  of  the  apartment,  every  one  enveloped  in  its  white 
draping  curtain ;  a  long  drawer,  beneath  each,  served  for  a 
wardrobe,  and  between  each  was  a  stand  for  ewer,  basin,  and 
looking-glass.  The  beds  of  the  two  Miss  Brontes  were  at 
the  extreme  end  of  the  room,  almost  as  private  and  retired 
as  if  th^y  had  been  in  a  separate  apartment. 

During  the  hours  of  recreation,  which  were  always  spent 
m  the  garden,  they  invariably  walked  together,  and  generally 
kept  a  profound  silence ;  Emily,  though  so  much  the  taller, 
leaning  on  her  sister.  Charlotte  would  always  answer  when 
spoken  to,  taking  the  lead  in  replying  to  any  remark  addressed 
to  both;  Emily  rarely  spoke  to  any  one.  Charlotte's  quiet, 
gentle  manner  never  changed.  She  was  never  seen  out  of 
temper  for  a  moment;  and,  occasionally,  when  she  herself 
had  assumed  the  post  of  English  teacher,  and  the  imperti- 
nence or  inattention  of  her  pupils  was  most  irritating,  a  slight 
increase  of  colour,  a  momentary  sparkling  of  the  eye,  and 
more  decided  energy  of  manner,  were  the  only  outward  tokens 
she  gave  of  being  conscious  of  the  annoyance  to  which  she 
was  subjected.     But  this  dignified  endurance  of  hers  subdued 


HER  CONDUCT  AS  A  TEACHER.  221 

her  pupils,  in  the  long  run,  far  more  than  the  voluble  tiradea 
of  the  other  mistresses.  My  informant  adds : — "  The  effect 
of  this  manner  was  singular.  I  can  speak  from  personal  ex- 
perience. I  was  at  that  time  high-spirited  and  impetuous, 
not  respecting  the  French  mistresses ;  yet,  to  my  own  aston- 
ishment, at  one  word  from  her,  I  was  perfectly  tractable ;  so 
much  so,  that  at  length  M.  and  Madame  Heger  invariably 
preferred  all  their  wishes  to  me  through  her ;  the  other  pupils 
did  not,  perhaps,  love  her  as  I  did,  she  was  so  quiet  and 
silent,  but  all  respected  her." 

With  the  exception  of  that  part  which  describes  her  man- 
ner as  English  teacher — an  office  which  she  did  not  assume 
for  some  months  later — all  this  description  of  the  school  life 
of  the  two  Brontes  refers  to  the  commencement  of  the  new 
scholastic  year  in  October,  1842;  and  the  extracts  I  have 
given  convey  the  first  impression  which  the  life  at  a  foreign 
school,  and  the  position  of  the  two  Miss  Brontes '  therein, 
made  upon  an  intelligent  English  girl  of  sixteen. 

The  first  break  in  this  life  of  regular  duties  and  employ- 
ments came  heavily  and  sadly.  Martha— -pretty,  winning, 
mischievous,  tricksome  Martha — was  taken  ill  suddenly  at 
the  Chateau  de  Kokleberg.  Her  sister  tended  her  with  de- 
voted love ;  but  it  was  all  in  vain ;  in  a  few  days  she  died. 
Charlotte's  own  short  account  of  this  event  is  as  follows  : — 

"  Martha  T.'s  illness  was  unknown  to  me  till  the  day 
before  she  died.  I  hastened  to  Kokleberg  the  next  morning 
— unconscious  that  she  was  in  great  danger — and  was  told 
that  it  was  finished.  She  had  died  in  the  night.  Mary  was 
taken  away  to  Bruxelles.  I  have  seen  Mary  frequently  since. 
She  is  in  no  ways  crushed  by  the  event ;  but  while  Martha 
was  ill,  she  was  to  her  more  than  a  mother— more  than  a  sis- 
ter: watching,  nursing,  cherishing  her  so  tenderly,  so  un- 
weariedly.     She  appears  calm  and  serious  now;  no  bursts 


222  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

of  violent  emotion;  no  exaggeration  of  distress.  I  have  seec 
Martha's  grave — the  place  where  her  ashes  lie  in  a  foreign 
country." 

Who  that  has  read  ^'  Shirley  ''  does  not  remember  tho 
few  lines — perhaps  half  a  page — of  sad  recollection  ? 

''  He  has  no  idea  that  little  Jessy  wiil  die  joung,  she  ia 
so  gay,  and  chattering,  and  arch — original  even  now;  pa&* 
sionate  when  provoked,  but  most  affectionate  if  caressed ;  by 
turns  gentle  and  rattling ;  exacting  yet  generous ;  fearless 
.  .  .  .  yet  reliant  on  any  one  who  will  help  her.  Jessy, 
with  her  little  piquant  face,  engaging  prattle,  and  winning 
ways,  is  made  to  be  a  pet.         #  #  *  * 

"  Do  you  know  this  place  ?  No,  you  never  saw  it ;  but 
you  recognise  the  nature  of  these  trees,  this  foliage — the 
cypress,  the  willow,  the  yew.  Stone  crosses  like  these  are 
not  unfamiliar  to  you,  nor  are  these  dim  garlands  of  ever- 
lasting flowers.  Here  is  the  place ;  green  sod  and  a  gray 
marble  head-stone — Jessy  sleeps  below.  She  lived  througli 
an  April  day;  much  loved  was  she,  much  loving.  She  often, 
in  her  brief  life,  shed  tears — she  had  frequent  sorrows ;  she 
smiled  between,,  gladdening  whatever  saw  her.  Her  death 
was  tranquil  and  happy  in  Rose's  guardian  arms,  for  Hose 
had  been  her  stay  and  defence  through  many  trials ;  the  dying 
and  the  watching  English  girls  were  at  that  hour  alone  in  a 
foreign  country,  and  the  soil  of  that  country  gave  Jessy  a 
grave.  *  *  *  ^  ^a- 

"  But,  Jessy,  I  will  write  about  you  no  more.  This  is 
an  autumn  evening,  wet  and  wild.  There  is  only  one  cloud 
in  the  sky ;  but  it  curtains  it  from  pole  to  pole.  The  wind 
cannot  rest ;  it  hurries  sobbing  over  hills  of  sullen  outline, 
colourless  with  twilight  and  mist.  Rain  has  beat  all  day  on 
that  church  tower*'   (Haworth)  :  ''it  rises  dark  from  the 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOL'NO  FRIEND.      223 

btony  enclosure  of  its  graveyard  :  the  nettles,  the  long  grass, 
and  the  tombs  all  drip  with  wet.  This  evening  reminds  me 
too  forcibly  of  another  evening  some  years  ago  :  a  howling, 
rainy  autumn  evening  too — when  certain  who  had  that  day 
performed  a  pilgrimage  to  a  grave  new  made  in  a  heretic 
cemetery,  sat  near  a  wood  fire  on  the  hearth  of  a  foreigE 
dwelling.  They  were  merry  and  social  but  they  each  knew 
that  a  gap,  never  to  be  filled,  had  been  made  in  that  circle. 
They  knew  they  had  lost  something  whose  absence  could 
never  be  quite  atoned  for,  so  long  as  they  lived  ;  and  they 
knew  that  heavy  falling  rain  was  soaking  into  the  wet  earth 
which  covered  their  lost  darling;  and  that  the  sad,  sighing 
gale  was  mourning  above  her  buried  head.  The  fire  warmed 
them  ;  Life  and  Friendship  yet  blessed  them :  but  Jessy  lay 
cold,  cojfined,  solitary — only  the  sod  screening  her  from  the 
storm." 

This  was  the  first  death  that  had  occurred  in  the  small 
circle  of  Charlotte's  immediate  and  intimate  friends  since  the 
loss  of  her  two  sisters  long  ago.  She  was  still  in  the  midst 
of  her  deep  sympathy  with  Mary,  when  word  came  from  home 
■ihat  her  aunt.  Miss  Bran  well,  was  ailing — was  very  ill. 
Bniily  and  Charlotte  immediately  resolved  to  go  home 
straight,  and  hastily  packed  up  for  England,  doubtful  whether 
they  should  ever  return  to  Brussels  or  not,  leaving  all  their 
relations  with  M.  and  Madame  Heger,  and  the  pensionnat, 
uprooted,  and  uncertain  of  any  future  existence.  Even  before 
their  departure,  on  the  morning  after  they  received  the  first 
intelligence  of  illness — when  they  were  on  the  very  point  of 
starting — came  a  second  letter  telling  them  of  their  aunt's 
death.  It  could  not  hasten  their  movements,  for  every  ar- 
rangement had  been  made  for  speed.  They  sailed  from  Ant- 
werp ;  they  travelled  night  and  day,  and  got  home  on  a  Tues- 
day morning.    The  funeral  and  all  was  over,  and  Mr.  Bronte 


224  LIFE    OF    CHARLOTTE    BliONTE. 

and  Anne  were  sitting  together,  in  quiet  grief  for  tlie  loss  of 
one  who  had  done  her  part  well  in  their  household  for  nearly 
twenty  years,  and  earned  the  regard  and  respect  of  many  who 
never  knew  how  much  they  should  miss  her  till  she  was 
gone.  The  small  property  which  she  had  accumulated,  by 
dint  of  personal  frugality  and  self-denial,  was  bequeathed  to 
her  nieces.  Branwell,  her  darling,  was  to  have  had  his  share ; 
but  his  reckless  expenditure  had  distressed  the  good  old  lady, 
and  his  name  was  omitted  in  her  will. 

When  the  first  shock  was  over,  the  three  sisters  began  to 
enjoy  the  full  relish  of  meeting  again,  after  the  longest  separa- 
tion they  had  had  in  their  lives.  They  had  much  to  tell  of  the 
past,  and  much  to  settle  for  the  future.  Anne  had  been  for 
some  little  time  in  a  situation,  to  which  she  was  to  return  at 
the  end  of  the  Christmas  holidays.  For  another  year  or  so 
they  were  again  to  be  all  three  apart ;  and,  after  that,  the 
happy  vision  of  being  together  and  opening  a  school  was  to 
be  realized.  Of  course  they  did  not  now  look  forward  to  set- 
tling at  Burlington,  or  any  other  place  which  would  take 
them  away  from  their  father  ;  but  the  small  sum  which  they 
each  independently  possessed  would  enable  them  to  effect 
such  alterations  in  the  parsonage-house  at  Haworth  as  would 
adapt  it  to  the  reception  of  pupils.  Anne's  pla,ns  for  the  in- 
terval were  fixed.  Emily  quickly  decided  to  be  the  daughter 
to  remain  at  home.  About  Charlotte  there  was  much  delib- 
eration and  some  discussion. 

Even  in  all  the  haste  of  their  sudden  departure  from 
Brussels,  M.  Hegcr  had  found  time  to  write  a  letter  of  sym- 
pathy to  Mr.  Bronte  on  the  loss  which  he  had  just  sustained; 
a  letter  containing  such  a  graceful  appreciation  of  the  daugh- 
ters' characters,  under  the  form  of  a  tribute  of  respect  to 
iheir  father,  that  I  should  have  been  tempted  to  copy  it,  even 
had  there  not  also  been  a  proposal  made  in  it  respecting  Char- 
I  jtte,  which  deserves  a  place  in  the  record  of  her  life. 


LETTER   OF   M.    DEGEK   TO   IVIR.    J5R0NTE.  225 

"  Jw  Beverend  Monsieur  Bronie^  Pasteur  Evangelique, 
&c,  dbc, 

"  Samedi,  5  9^'"- 
"  Monsieur, 

"  Un  evenement  bien  t'riste  decide  mesdemoiselles 
vos  fiUes  a  retourner  brusquement  en  Angleterre,  ce  depart  qui 
nous  afflige  beaucoup  a  cependant  ma  complete  approbation ; 
il  est  bien  natural  qu'elles  chercbent  a  vous  consoler  de  ce 
que  le  ciel  vient  de  yous  oter,  en  se  serrant  autour  de  vous, 
pour  mieux  vous  faire  apprecier  ce  que  le  ciel  vous  a  donne 
et  ce  qu'il  vous  laisse  encore.  J^espt^re  que  vous  me  pardon- 
nerez,  Monsieur,  de  profiter  de  cette  circonstance  pour  vous 
faire  prevenir  Fexpression  de  mon  respect;  je  n'ai  pas  I'hon- 
neur  de  vous  connaitre  personellement,  et  cependant  j'eprouve 
pour  votre  personne  un  sentiment  de  sincere  veneration,  car 
en  jugeant  un  pere  de  famille  par  ses  enfants  on  ne  risque  pas 
de  se  tromper,  et  sous  ce  rapport  Teducation  et  les  sentiments 
que  nous  avons  trouves  dans  mesdemoiselles  vos  filles,  n'ont 
pu  que  nous  donner  une  tres  haute  idee  de  votre  merite  et  de 
votre  caractere.  Yous  apprendrez  sans  doute  avec  plaisir  que 
vos  enfants  ont  fait  du  progres  tres  remarquable  dans  toutes  les 
branches  de  Tenseignement,  et  que  ces  progres  sont  entierement 
du  a  leur  amour  pour  le  travail  et  a  leur  perseverance ;  nous 
n'avons  eu  que  bien  peu  a  faire  avec  de  pareilles  eleves ; 
leur  avancement  est  votre  oeuvre  bien  plus  que  la  notre ;  nous 
n 'avons  pas  eu  a  leur  apprendre  le  prix  du  temps  et  de  Pin- 
struction,  elles  avaient  appris  tout  cela  dans  la  maison  pater- 
nolle,  et  nous  n'avons  eu,  pour  notre  part,  que  le  faible  meri-  ^-^ 
^de  diriger  leurs  efforts  et  de  fournir  un  aliment  convenable  a 
la  louable  activite  que  vos  filles  ont  puisee  dans  votre  exemplo 
et  dans  vos  lecons.  Puissent  les  eloges  meritees  que  nous 
donnons  a  vos  enfants  vous  etre  de  quelque  consolation  dan^ 
le  malheur  qui  vous  afflige ;  c'est  la  notre  espoir  en  vous 

VOL.  I.— 10^^ 


226  LIFE    OF   CHxiKLOTTE   BKONTE 

ecrivant,  et  ce  gera,  pour  Mesdemoiselles  Charlotte  tt  Emily 
une  douce  et  belle  recompense  de  leurs  travaux. 

"  En  perdant  nos  deux  clieres  (Aleves  nous  ne  devons  pas 
vous  cacher  que  nous  eprouvons  a  la  fois  et  du  chagrin  et  de 
rinquietude ;  nous  sommes  aliiiges  parceque  cette  brusque 
separation  vient  briser  I'affection  presque  paternelle  que  nous 
leur  avons  vouee,  et  notre  peine  s'augmente  a  la  vue  de  tant 
de  travaux  interrompees,  de  tant  des  choses  bien  commencees, 
et  qui  ne  demandent  que  quelque  temps  encore  pour  etre  me- 
nees  a  bonne  fin.  Dans  un  an,  chacune  de  vos  demoiselles 
eut  ete  entierement  premunie  centre  les  eventualites  de  I'ave- 
nir ;  chacune  d'elles  acquerrait  a  la  fois  et  I'instruction  et  la 
science  d'enseignement ;  Mile.  Emily  allait  apprendre  le  piano ; 
recevoir  les  legons  du  meilleur  professeur  que  nous  ayons  en 
Belgique,  et  deja  clle  avait  elle-meme  de  petites  eleves ;  elle 
perdait  done  a  la  fois  un  reste  d'ignorance,  et  un  reste  plus 
genant  encore  de  timidite  ;  Mile.  Charlotte  commengait  a 
donner  des  lecons  en  francais,  et  d'acquerir  cette  assurance, 
cet  aplomb  si  necessaire  dans  Tenseignement ;  encore  un  a^tv*/ 
tout  au  plus,  et  Foeuvre  etait  achevee  et  bien  achevee.  Alors 
nous  aurions  pu,  si  cela  vous  eut  convenu,  offrir  a  mesdemoi- 
selles vos  filles  ou  du  moins  a  I'une  de  deux  une  position  qui 
cut  etc  dans  ses  gouts,  et  qui  lui  eut  donne  cette  douce  inde- 
pendance  si  difficile  a  trouver  pour  une  jeune  personne.  Ce 
n'est  pas,  croyez  le  bien  monsieur,  ce  n'est  pas  ici  pour  nous 
une  question  d'interet  personnel,  c'est  une  question  d'affec- 
tion ;  vous  me  pardonnerez  si  nous  vous  parlons  de  vos  en- 
fants,  si  nous  nous  occupons  de  leur  avenir,  comme  si  elles 
faisaient  partie  de  notre  famille  ;  leurs  qualites  personnelles, 
leur  bon  vouloir,  leur  zele  extreme  sent  les  seules  causes  qui 
nous  poussent  a  nous  hasarder  de  la  sorte.  Nous  savons, 
Monsieur,  que  vous  peserez  plus  murement  et  plus  sagement 
que  nous  la  consequence  qu'aurait  pour  I'avenir  une  interrup- 
tion complete  dans  les  Etudes  de  vos  deux  filles ;  vous  deci- 


A   JIAPPY    CHRISTMAS   AT   IIAWOKTir.  227 

derez  ce  qu'il  faut  faire,  et  vous  nous  pardonnerez  notre  fran- 
chise, si  vous  daignez  considerer  que  le  motif  qui  nous  fait 
agir  est  une  affection  bien  desinterressee  et  qui  s'affligerait 
beaucoup  de  devoir  deja  se  resigner  a  n'etre  plus  utile  a  vos 
cliers  enfants. 

"  Agreez,  je  vous  prie,  Monsieur,  d'expression  respectueusG 
de  mes  sentiments  de  liaute  consideration. 

''  C.  HegerJ' 

There  was  so  much  truth,  as  well  as  so  much  kindness,  in 
this  letter — it  was  so  obvious  that  a  second  year  of  instruc- 
tion would  be  so  far  more  valuable  than  the  first,  that  there 
was  no  long  hesitation  before  it  was  decided  that  Charlotte 
should  return  to  Brussels. 

Meanwhile,  they  enjoyed  their  Christmas  all  together  in- 
expressibly. Branwell  was  with  them ;  that  was  always  a 
pleasure  at  this  time ;  whatever  might  be  his  faults,  or  even 
his  vices,  his  sisters  yet  held  him  up  as  their  family  hope,  as 
they  trusted  that  he  would  some  day  be  their  family  pride. 
They  blinded  themselv-es  to  the  magnitude  of  the  failings  of 
which  they  were  now  and  then  told,  by  persuading  themselves 
that  such  failings  were  common  to  all  men  of  any  strength  of 
character ;  for,  till  sad  experience  taught  them  better,  they 
fell  into  the  usual  error  of  confounding  strong  passions  with 
strong  character. 

Charlotte's  friend  came  over  to  see  her,  and  she  returned 
the  visit.  Her  Brussels  life  must  have  seemed  like  a  dream, 
80  completely,  in  this  short  space  of  time,  did  she  fall  back 
into  the  old  household  ways  :  with  more  of  household  inde- 
pendence than  she  could  ever  have  had  during  her  aunt's 
life- time.  Winter  though  it  was,  the  sisters  took  their  accus- 
tomed walks  on  the  snow-covered  moors ;  or  went  often  down 
the  long  road  to  Keighley,  for  such  books  as  had  been  added 
to  the  library  there  during  their  absence  from  England. 


22S  TJFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BKONTE, 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Towards  the  end  of  January,  the  time  came  for  Cliariotte  to 
return  to  Brussels.  Her  journey  thither  was  rather  disas- 
trous. She  had  to  make  her  way  alone ;  and  the  train  from 
Leeds  to  London,  which  should  have  reached  Euston-square 
early  in  the  afternoon,  was  so  much  delayed  that  it  did  not 
get  in  till  ten  at  night.  She  had  intended  to  seek  out  the 
Chapter  Coffee-house,  where  she  had  stayed  before,  and  which 
would  haye  been  near  the  place  where  the  steam-boats  lay ; 
but  she  seems  to  have  been  frightened  by  the  idea  of  arriving 
at  an  hour  which,  to  Yorkshire  notions,  was  so  late  and  un- 
seemly ;  and  taking  a  cab,  therefore,  at  the  station,  she  drove 
straight  to  the  London  Bridge  Wharf;  and  desired  a  water- 
man to  row  her  to  the  Ostend  packet,  which  was  to  sail  the 
next  morning.  She  described  to  me,  pretty  much  as  she  has 
since  described  it  in  "  Villette,"  her  sense  of  loneliness,  and 
yet  her  strange  pleasure  in  the  excitement  of  the  situation,  as 
in  the  .dead  of  that  winter's  night  she  went  swiftly  over  the 
dark  river  to  the  black  hull's  side,  and  was  at  first  refused 
leave  to  ascend  to  the  deck.  "  No  passengers  might  sleep  on 
board,"  they  said,  with  some  appearance  of  disrespect.  She 
looked  back  to  the  lights  and  subdued  noises  of  London — 
that  "  Mighty  Heart "  in  which  she  had  no  place — and,  stand- 
ing up  in  the  rocking  boat,  she  asked  to  speak  to  some  one  in 
authority  on  board  the  packet.     He  came,  and  her  quiet 


HER  EETUEK  TO  BRUSSELS  ALONE.       229 

simple  statement  of  her  wish,  and  her  reason  for  it,  quelled 
the  feeling  of  sneering  distrust  in  those  who  had  first  heard 
her  request ;  and  impressed  the  authority  so  favorably  that 
he  allowed  her  to  come  on  board,  and  take  possession  of  a 
berth.  The  next  morning  she  sailed;  and  at  seven  oc 
Sunday  evening  she  reached  the  Rue  d'Isabelle  once  more  ; 
having  only  left  Haworth  on  Friday  morning  at  an  earljp 
hour. 

Her  salary  was  16Z.  a  year ,  out  of  which  she  had  to  pay 
for  her  German  lessons,  for  which  she  was  charged  as  much 
(the  lessons  being  probably  rated  by  time)  as  when  Emily 
learnt  with  her  and  divided  the  expense ;  viz.,  ten  francs  a 
month.  By  Miss  Bronte's  own  desire,  she  gave  her  Englisi 
lessons  in  the  classe,  or  school-room,  without  the  supervision 
of  Madame  or  M.  Heger.  They  offered  to  be  present,  with 
a  view  to  maintain  order  among  the  unruly  Belgian  girls 
but  she  declined  this,  saying  that  she  would  rather  enforce 
discipline  by  her  own  manner  and  character  than  be  indebted 
for  obedience  to  the  presence  of  a  gendarme.  She  ruled 
over  a  new  school-room,  which  had  been  built  on  the  space 
in  the  play-ground  adjoining  the  house.  Over  that  First 
Class  she  was  surveillante  at  all  hours ;  and  henceforward 
she  was  called  Mademoiselle  Charlotte,  by  M.  Heger's  orders. 
She  continued  her  own  studies,  principally  attending  to  Ger- 
man, and  to  Literature ;  and  every  Sunday  she  went  alone 
to  the  German  and  English  chapels.  Her  walks  too  were 
solitary,  and  principally  taken  in  the  allee  defendue,  where 
she  was  secure  from  intrusion.  This  solitude  was  a  perilous 
luxury  to  one  of  her  temperament ;  so  liable  as  she  was  to 
morbid  and  acute  mental  suffering. 

On  March  6th,  1843,  she  writes  thus : — 

"  I  am  settled  by  this  time,  of  course.     I  am  not  too 
much  overloaded  with  occupation;    and  besides    teaching 


230  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

English,  I  Lave  time  to  improve  myself  in  German.  1 
ought  to  consider  myself  well  off,  and  to  he  thankful  for  my 
good  fortunes.  I  hope  I  am  thankful ;  and  if  I  could  always 
keep  up  my  spirits,  and  never  feel  lonely,  or  long  for  com- 
panionship, or  friendship,  or  whatever  they  call  it,  I  should 
do  very  well.  As  I  told  you  before,  M.  and  Madame 
Heger  are  the  only  two  persons  in  the  house  for  whom  I 
really  experience  regard  and  esteem,  and,  of  course,  I  cannot 
be  always  with  them,  nor  even  very  often.  They  told  me, 
when  I  first  returned,  that  I  was  to  consider  their  sitting- 
room  my  sitting-room  also,  and  to  go  there  whenever  I  was 
not  engaged  in  the  school- room.  This,  however,  I  cannot 
do.  In  the  day-time  it  is  a  public  room,  where  music- 
masters  and  mistresses  are  constantly  passing  in  and  out ; 
and  in  the  evening,  I  will  not,  and  ought  not  to  intrude  on 
M.  and  Madame  Heger  and  their  children.  Thus  I  am  a 
good  deal  by  myself,  out  of  school-hours ;  but  that  does  not 
signify.  I  now  regularly  give  English  lessons  to  M.  Heger 
and  his  brother-in-law.  They  get  on  with  wonderful  rapid- 
ity ;  especially  the  first.  He  already  begins  to  speak  Eng- 
lish very  decently.  If  you  could  see  and  hear  the  efforla 
I  make  to  teach  them  to  pronounce  like  Englishmen,  and 
their  unavailing  attempts  to  imitate,  you  would  laugh  to  all 
eternity. 

'^  The  Carnival  is  just  over,  and  we  have  entered  upon  . 
the  gloom  and  abstinence  of  Lent.  The  first  day  of  Lent  we 
had  coffee  without  milk  for  breakfast;  vinegar  and  vege- 
tables, with  a  very  little  salt  fish,  for  dinner ;  and  bread  for 
supper.  The  Crjnival  was  nothing  but  masking  and  mum- 
mery. M.  Heger  took  me  and  one  of  the  pupils  into  the 
town  to  see  the  masks.  It  was  animating  to  see  the  im- 
mense crowds,  and  the  general  gaiety,  but  the  masks  were 
nothing.  I  have  been  twice  to  the  D.'s ''  (those  cousins 
of  Mary's  of  whom  I  have  before  made  mention),     ''  When 


HER   DESPONDENCY.  231 

bIic  leaves  Eruxelles,  I  shall  have  nowhere  to  go  to.  I  havo 
had  two  letters  from  Mary.  She  does  not  tell  me  she  has 
been  ill,  and  she  does  not  complain  ;  but  her  letters  are  not 
the  letters  of  a  person  in  the  enjoyment  of  great  happiness. 
She  has  nobody  to  be  as  good  to  her  as  M.  Heger  is  to  me ; 
to  lend  her  books ;  to  converse  with  her  sometimes,  &c. 

"  Good-bye.  When  I  say  so,  it  seems  to  me  that  you 
will  hardly  hear  me ;  all  the  waves  of  the  Channel  heaving 
and  roaring  between,  must  deaden  the  sound." 

From  the  tone  of  this  letter  it  may  easily  be  perceived 
that  the  Brussels  of  1843  was  a  different  place  from  that  of 
1842.  Then  she  had  Emily  for  a  daily  and  nightly  solace 
and  companion.  She  had  the  weekly  variety  of  a  visit  to 
the  family  of  the  D.'s;  and  she  had  the  frequent  happiness 
of  seeing  Mary  and  Martha.  Now  Emily  was  far  away  in 
Haworth — where  she,  or  any  other  loved  one,  might  die,  be- 
fore Charlotte,  with  her  utmost  speed,  could  reach  them,  as 
experience,  in  her  aunt's  case,  had  taught  her.  The  D.'s 
were  leaving  Brussels;  so,  henceforth,  her  weekly  holiday 
would  have  to  be  passed  in  the  Bue  d'Isabelle,  or  so  she 
thought.  Mary  was  gone  off  on  her  own  independent  course ; 
Martha  alone  remained — still  and  quiet  for  ever,  in  the  cem- 
etery beyond  the  Porte  de  Louvain.  The  weather,  too,  for 
the  first  few  weeks  after  Charlotte's  return,  had  been  pierc- 
ingly cold  and  her  feeble  constitution  was  always  painfully 
sensitive  to  an  inclement  season.  Mere  bodily  pain,  however 
acute,  she  could  always  put  aside ;  but  too  often  ill-health 
assailed  her  in  a  part  far  more  to  be  dreaded.  Her  depres- 
sion of  spirits,  when  she  was  not  well,  was  pitiful  in  its  ex- 
tremity. She  was  aware  that  it  was  constitutional,  and  could 
reason  about  it ;  but  no  reason  prevented  her  suffering  men- 
tal agony,  while  the  bodily  cause  remained  in  force. 

The  Hegers  have  discovered,  since  the  j.ublication  of 


232  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

"  Villette,"  that,  at  this  beginning  of  her  career  as  English 
teacher  in  their  school,  the  conduct  of  her  pupils  was  often 
impertinent  and  mutinous  in  the  highest  degree.  But  of 
this  they  were  unaware  at  the  time,  as  she  had  declined  their 
presence,  and  never  made  any  complaint.  Still,  it  must 
have  heen  a  depressing  thought  to  her  at  this  period,  that 
her  joyous,  healthy,  obtuse  pupils,  were  so  little  answerable 
to  the  powers  she  could  bring  to  bear  upon  them;  and 
though,  from  their  own  testimony,  her  patience,  firmness,  and 
resolution,  at  length  obtained  their  just  reward,  yet,  with 
one  so  weak  in  health  and  spirits  as  she  was,  the  reaction 
after  such  struggles  as  she  frequently  had  with  her  pupils, 
must  have  been  very  sad  and  painful. 
She  thus  writes  to  her  friend  E.  : — 

"^i^HZ,  1843. 
''  Is  there  any  talk  of  your  coming  to  Brussels  ?  During 
the  bitter  cold  weather  we  had  through  February,  and  the 
principal  part  of  March,  I  did  not  regret  that  you  had  not 
accompanied  me.  If  I  had  seen  you  shivering  as  I  shivered 
myself,  if  I  had  seen  your  hands  and  feet  as  red  and  swelled 
as  mine  were,  my  discomfort  would  just  have  been  doubled. 
I  can  do  very  well  under  this  sort  of  thing ;  it  does  not  fret 
me  ;  it  only  makes  me  numb  and  silent ;  but  if  you  were  to 
pass  a  winter  in  Belgium,  you  would  be  ill.  However,  more 
genial  weather  is  coming  now,  and  I  wish  you  were  here. 
Yet  I  never  have  pressed  you,  and  never  would  press  you 
too  warmly  to  come.  There  are  privations  and  humiliations 
to  submit  to ;  there  is  monotony  and  uniformity  of  life ;  and, 
above  all,  there  is  a  constant  sense  of  solitude  in  the  midst 
of  numbers.  The  Protestant,  the  foreigner,  is  a  solitary  be- 
ing, whether  as  teacher  or  pupil.  I  do  not  say  this  by  way 
of  complaining  of  my  own  lot ;  for  though  I  acknowledge 
that  there  are  certain  disadvantages  in  my  present  position, 


HEK    SOLITUDE   IN    THE   PENSIONNAT.  IJdJ 

what  position  on  earth  is  without  them  ?  And,  whenever  I 
turn  back  to  compare  what  I  am  with  what  I  was — my  place 

here  with  my  place  at  Mrs. 's  for  instance — I  am  thank- 

fuL  There  was  an  observation  in  your  last  letter  which  ex- 
cited, for  a  moment,  my  wrath/  At  first,  I  thought  it  would 
be  folly  to  reply  to  it,  and  I  would  let  it  die.  Afterwards, 
I  determined  to  give  one  answer,  once  for  all.  *  Three  or 
four  people,*  it  seems,  ^  have  the  idea  that  the  future  Spouse 
of  Mademoiselle  Bronte  is  on  the  Continent.'  These  people 
are  wiser  than  I  am.  They  could  not  believe  that  I  crossed 
the  sea  merely  to  return  as  teacher  to  Madame  Heger's.  I 
must  have  some  more  powerful  motive  than  respect  for  my 
master  and  mistress,  gratitude  for  their  kindness,  &c.,  to  in- 
duce me  to  refuse  a  salary  of  501.  in  England,  and  accept 
one  of  16Z.  in  Belgium.  I  must,  forsooth,  have  some  remote 
hope  of  entrapping  a  husband  somehow,  or  somewhere.  If 
these  charitable  people  knew  the  total  seclusion  of  the  life  I 
lead,  that  I  never  exchange  a  word  with  any  other  man  than 
Monsieur  Heger,  and  seldom  indeed  with  him,  they  would, 
perhaps,  cease  to  e^uppose  that  any  such  chimerical  and 
groundless  notion  had  influenced  my  proceedings.  Have  I 
said  enough  to  clear  myself  of  so  silly  an  imputation  ?  Not 
that  it  is  a  crime  to  marry,  or  a  crime  to  wish  to  be  married ; 
but  it  is  an  imbecility,  which  I  reject  with  contempt,  for 
women,  who  have  neither  fortune  nor  beauty,  to  make  mar- 
riage the  principal  object  of  their  wishes  and  hopes,  and  the 
aim  of  all  their  actions ;  not  to  be  able  to  convince  them- 
selves that  they  are  unattractive,  and  that  they  had  bettei 
be  quiet,  and  think  of  other  things  than  wedlock." 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  one  of  the  few  letters 
which  have  been  preserved,  of  her  correspondence  with  her 
sister  Emily. 

"  I  get  on  here  from  day  to  day  in  a  liobinson- Crusoe- 


234  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

like  sort  of  way,  very  lonely,  but  that  does  not  signify.  lu 
other  respects,  I  have  nothing  substantial  to  complain  of,  nor 
is  this  a  cause  for  complaint.  I  hope  you  are  well.  Walk 
out  often  on  the  moors.  My  love  to  Tabby.  I  hope  she 
keeps  well.*" 

And  about  this  time  she  wrote  to  her  father. 

"  June  2nd^  1843. 
^^  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  from  home.  I  had  begun  to 
get  low-spirited  at  not  receiving  any  news,  and  to  entertain 
indefinite  fears  that  something  was  wrong.  You  do  not  say 
anything  about  your  own  health,  but  I  hope  you  are  well, 
and  Emily  also.  I  am  afraid  she  will  have  a  good  deal 
of  hard  work  to  do  now  that  Hannah  "  (a  servant-girl  who 
had  been  assisting  Tabby)  "  is  gone.  I  am  exceedingly  glad 
to  hear  that  you  still  keep  Tabby  "  (considerably  upwards  of 
seventy).  "  It  is  an  act  of  great  charity  to  her,  and  I  do  not 
think  it  will  be  unrewarded,  for  she  is  very  faithful,  and  will 
always  serve  you,  when  she  has  occasion,  to  the  best  of  her 
abilities ;  besides,  she  will  be  company  for  Emily,  who,  with- 
out her,  would  be  very  lonely." 

I  gave  a  devoir^  written  after  she  had  been  four  months 
under  M.  Heger's  tuition.  I  will  now  copy  out  another, 
written  nearly  a  year  later,  during  which  the  progress  made 
appears  to  me  very  great. 

"  31  Mai,  1813. 

"  SUR    LA    NOM    DE    NaPOLEON. 

"  Napoleon  naquit  en  Corse  et  mourut  a  St.  Helene. 
Entre  ces  deux  ilcs  rien  qu'un  vaste  et  brulant  desert  et 
Vocean  immense.  II  naquit  fils  d'un  simple  gentilhomme,  et 
mourut  empereur,  mais  sans  couronne  et  dans  les  fers. 
Eutre  son  ber^eau  et  sa  tombe  qu'  y  a-t-il  ?  la  carriere  d'un 
Boldat  parvenu^  des  champs  de  bataille,  une  mer  de  sang,  un 


HER  DEVOIR  '^  SUR  LA  ^^0M  DE  NAPOLEON."   235 

trone,  puis  du  sang  encore,  et  des  fers.  Sa  vie,  c'est  Tare  en 
ciel ;  les  deux  points  extremes  touchent  la  terre ;  la  comble 
iumineuse  mesure  les  cieux.  Sur  Napoleon  au  berceau  une 
mere  brillait ;  dans  la  maison  paternelle  il  avait  des  freres  ct 
des  soeurs ;  plus  tard  dans  son '  palais  il  eut  une  femme  qui 
I'aimait.  Mais  sur  son  lit  de  mort  Napoleon  est  seul  •,  plu3 
de  mere,  ni  de  frere,  ni  de  soeur,  ni  de  femme,  ni  d'enfant ! ! 
D'autres  ont  dit  et  rediront  ses  exploits,  moi,  je  m'arrete  a 
contempler  I'abandonnement  de  sa  dernicre  lieure  I 

"  II  est  la,  exile  et  captif,  encha^ne  sur  un  ecueil.  Nou- 
veau  Prometliee  il  subit  le  chatiment  de  son  orgueil  !  Pro- 
methee  avait  voulu  etre  Dieu  et  Createur ;  il  deroba  le  feu  du 
Ciel  pour  animer  le  corps  qu'il  avait  forme.  Et  lui,  Buona- 
parte, il  a  voulu  creer,  non  pas  un  homme,  mais  un  empire, 
et  pour  donner  une  existence,  une  ame,  a  son  oeuvre  gigan- 
tesque,  il  n'a  pas  hesite  a  arracher  la  vie  a  des  nations  en- 
tieres.  Jupiter  indigne  de  Timpiete  de  Promethee  le  riva 
vivant  a  la  cime  du  Caucase.  Ainsi,  pour  punir  Tambition 
rapace  de  Buonaparte,  la  Providence  Fa  enchaine  jusqu'a  ce 
que  mort  s'en  suivit,  sur  un  roc  isole  de  I'Atlantique.  Peut- 
etre  la  aussi  a-t-il  senti  lui  fouillant  le  flanc  cet  insatiable 
vautours  dont  parle  la  fable,  peutetre  a-t-il  gouffert  aussi 
cette  soif  du  coeur,  cette  faim  de  I'ame,  qui  torturent  Fexile, 
loin  de  sa  famille,  et  de  sa  patrie.  Mais  parler  ainsi  n'est-ce 
pas  attribuer  gratuitement  a  Napoleon  une  humaine  faiblesse 
qu'il  n'eprouva  jamais  ?  Quand  done  s'est-il  laisse  enchain- 
er  par  un  lien  d'aflfection  ?  Sans  doute  d'autres  conquerants 
ont  hesite  dans  leur  carriere  de  gloire,  arretes  par  un  obsta- 
cle d'amour  ou  d'amitie,  retenus  par  la  main  d'une  femme, 
rappeles  par  la  voix  d'unami — lui,  jamais  !  II  n'eut  pas  be- 
soin  comme  Ulysse,  de  se  lier  au  mat  du  navire,  ni  de  so 
boucher  les  oreilles  avec  de  la  cire;  il  ne  redoutaitpas  lo 
chant  des  Sirenes — il  le  dedaignait ;  il  se  fit  marbre  et  fer 
p"Ur  executer  ses  grands  projets.     Napoleon  ne  se  regardait 


236  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

pas  comme  un  homme,  mais  comme  I'mcarnation  d'un  peuple, 
II  n'aimait  pas;  il  ne  considerait  ses  amis  et  ses  procbes 
que  comme  des  instruments  auxquels  il  tint,  tant  qu'ils 
furent  utiles,  et  qu'il  jeta  de  cote  quand  ils  cesserent  de  I'etre. 
Qu'on  ne  se  permette  done  pas  d'approcher  du  Sepulchre  du 
Corse,  avec  sentiments  de  pitie,  ou  de  souiller  de  larmes  la 
pierre  que  couvre  ses  restes,  son  ame  repudierait  tout  cela. 
On  a  dit,  je  le  sais,  qu'elle  fut  cruelle  la  main  qui  le  separa 
de  sa  femme,  et  de  son  enfant.  Non,  c'etait  une  main  qui, 
comme  la  sienne,  ne  tremblait  ni  de  passion  ni  de  crainte, 
c'etait  la  main  d'un  homme  froid,  convaincu,  qui  avait  su 
deviner  Buonaparte ;  et  voici  ce  que  disait  cet  homme  que  la 
defaite  n'a  pu  humilier,  ni  la  victoire  enorgueillir.  *  Marie- 
Louise  n'est  pas  la  femme  de  Napoleon  ;  c'est  la  France  que 
Napoleon  a  epousee ;  c'est  la  France  qu'il  aime,  leur  union 
enfante  la  perte  de  1'  Europe ;  voila  la  divorce  que  je  veux; 
voila  I'union  qu'il  faut  briser.' 

"  La  voix  des  timides  et  des  traitres  protesta  centre  cette 
sentence.  *  C'est  abuser  du  droits  de  la  victoire !  C'est 
fouler  aux  pieds  le  vaincu !  Que  I'Angleterre  se  montre  cle- 
mente,  qu'elle  ouvre  ses  bras  pour  recevoir  comme  hote  son 
ennemi  desarme.'  L'Angleterre  aurait  peutetre  ecoute  ce 
conseil,  car  partout  et  toujours  il  y  a  des  ames  faibles  et  tim- 
orees  bientot  seduites  par  la  flatterie  ou  effrayees  par  le  re- 
proche.  Mais  la  Providence  permit  qu'un  homme  se  trouvat 
qui  n'a  jamais  su  ce  que  c'est  que  la  crainte ;  qui  aima  sa 
patrie  mieux  que  sa  renommee ;  impenetrable  devant  Ics 
menaces,  inaccessible  aux  louanges,  il  se  presenta  devant  Ic 
conseil  de  la  nation,  et  levant  son  front  tranquille  et  haut,  il 
osa  dire :  "  Que  la  trahison  se  taise !  car  c'est  trahir  que  de 
conseiller  de  temporiser  avec  Buonaparte.  Moi  je  sais  ce 
que  sont  ces  guerres  dont  I'Europe  saigne  encore,  comme  une 
victimo  sous  le  couteau  du  boucher.  II  faut  en  finir  avec 
Napoleon   Buonaparte.      Vous   vous   cffrayez  de  tort  dun 


HER  DEVOIR  ''SUR  LA  NOM  DE  NAPOLEON."   237 

mofc  si  dur  !  Je  n'ai  pas  de  magnanimite,  dit-on  ?  Soit ! 
oue  m'importe  ce  qu'on  dit  de  moi.  Je  n'ai  pas  ici  a  me 
faire  une  reputation  de  heros  magnanime,  mais  a  guerir  si  la 
cure  est  possible,  I'Europe  qui  se  meurt,  epuisee  de  ressources 
et  de  sang,  FEurope  dont  vou-s  negligez  les  vrais  interets, 
preoccupes  que  vous  etes  d'une  vaine  renommee  de  clemence. 
Vous  etes  faibles.  Eh  bien  !  je  viens  vous  aider.  Envoy ez 
Buonaparte  a  Ste.  Helene  !  n'hesitez  pas,  ne  cherchez  pas  un 
autre  endroit ;  c'est  le  seul  convenable.  Je  vous  le  dis,  j'ai 
reflechi  pour  vous ;  c'est  la  qu'il  doit  etre  et  non  pas  ailleurs. 
Quant  a  Napoleon,  homme,  soldat,  je  n'ai  rien  centre  lui ; 
c'est  un  Lion  Eoyal,  aupres  de  qui  vous  n'etes  que  des  Cha- 
cals.  Mais  Napoleon  Empereur,  c'est  autre  chose,  je  I'extir- 
perai  du  sol  de  I'Europe.'  Et  celui  qui  parla  ainsi  toujours 
su  garder  sa  promesse,  celle-la,  comme  toutes  les  autres.  Je 
I'ai  dit,  et  je  le  repete,  cet  homme  est  I'egal  de  Napoleon 
par  la  genie ;  comme  trempe  de  caractere,  comme  droiture, 
comme  elevation  de  pensee  et  de  but,  il  est  d'une  tout  autre 
espece.  Napoleon  Buonaparte  etait  avide  de  renommee  et 
de  gloire  ;  Arthur  Wellesley  ne  se  soucie  ni  de  I'une,  ni  de 
Pautre ;  I'opinion  publique,  la  popularite,  etaient  choses  de 
grand  valeur  aux  yeux  de  Napoleon ;  pour  Wellington  I'opinion 
publique  est  une  rumeur,  un  rien  que  le  souffle  de  son  inflexible 
volonte  fait  disparaitre  comme  une  bulle  de  Savoy.  Napo- 
leon flattait  le  peuple  ;  Wellington  le  brusque  ;  I'un  cherchait 
les  applaudissements,  I'autre  ne  se  soucie  que  du  temoignage 
de  sa  conscience  ;  quand  elle  approuve,  c'est  assez  ;  toute  autre 
louange  I'obsede.  Aussi  ce  peuple,  qui  adorait  Buonaparte, 
s'irritait,  s'insurgeait  centre  la  morgue  de  Wellington ;  parfois 
il  lui  temoigna  sa  colore  et  sa  haine  par  des  grognements,  par 
des  hurlements  de  betes  fauves ;  et  alors  avec  une  impassi- 
bilite  de  senateur  Romaine,  le  moderne  Coriolan,  torsait  du 
regard  I'emeute  furieuse ;  il  croisait  ses  bras  nerveux  sur  sa 
large  poitrine,  et  seul,  debout  sur  son   senil,  il  attendait,  il 


238  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

bravait  cette  tempete  populaire  dont  les  flots  venaient  mourlr 
a  quelques  pas  de  lui :  et  quand  la  foule  honteuse  de  sa  re- 
bellion, venait  lecher  les  pieds  du  maitre,  le  hautain  patricien 
meprisait  I'hommage  d'aiijourd'hui  comme  la  haine  d'hier,  et 
dans  les  rues  do  Londres,  et  devant  son  palais  ducal  d'Apsley, 
il  repoussait  d'un  genre  plein  de  froid  dedain  rincommode 
empressement  du  peuple  enthousiaste.  Cette  fierte  neanmoins 
s'excluait  pas  en  lui  une  rare  modestie  ;  partout  il  se  sous- 
trait  a  I'eloge ;  se  derobe  au  panegyrique ;  jamais  il  ne 
parle  de  ses  exploits,  et  jamais  il  ne  souffre  qu'un  autre  que 
lui  en  parle  en  sa  presence.  Son  caractere  egale  en  gran- 
deur et  sarpasse  en  verite  celui  de  tout  autre  heros  ancien  ou 
nioderne.  La  gloire  de  Napoleon  crut  en  une  nuit,  comme  la 
vigne  de  Jonah,  et  il  suffit  d'un  jour  pour  la  fletrir;  la  gloire 
de  Wellington  est  comme  les  vieux  chenes  qui  ombragent  le 
chateau  de  ses  peres  sur  les  rives  du  Shannon  ;  le  chene  croit 
lentement ;  il  lui  faut  du  temps  pour  pousser  vers  le  ciel 
ses  branches  noueusses,  et  pour  enfoncer  dans  le  sol,  ces  ra- 
cines  profondes  qui  s'enchevetrent  dans  les  fondements 
solides  de  la  terre ;  mais  alors,  I'arbre  seculaire,  inebranla- 
ble  comme  le  roc  ou  il  a  sa  base,  brave  et  la  faux  du  temps 
et  Tefforte  des  ventes  et  des  tempetes.  II  faudra  peutetre 
un  siscle  a  I'Angleterre  pour  qu'elle  connaisse  la  valeur  de 
son  heros.  Dans  un  siecle,  TEurope  entiere  saura  combien 
Wellington  a  de  droit  a  sa  reoonnoissance." 

How  often  in  writing  this  paper  "  in  a  strange  land," 
must  Miss  Bronte  have  thought  of  the  old  childish  disputes 
in  the  kitchen  of  Haworth  parsonage,  touching  the  respec- 
tive merits  of  Wellington  and  Buonaparte !  Although  the 
title  given  to  her  devoir  is,  '^  On  the  Name  of  Napoleon," 
she  seems  yet  to  have  considered  it  a  point  of  honour  rather 
to  sing  praises  to  an  English  hero  than  to  dwell  on  the 
character  of  a  foreigner^  placed  as  she  was  among  those  who 


DEPKESSION   AND   HOME-SICKNESS.  239 

cared  little  •either  for  England  or  for  Wellington.  She  now 
felt  that  she  had  made  great  progress  towards  obtaining 
proficiency  in  the  French  language,  which  had  been  her  main 
object  in  coming  to  Brussels.  But  to  the  zealous  learner 
"  Alps  on  Alps  arise."  No  sooner  is  one  difficulty  surmount- 
ed than  some  other  desirable  attainment  appears,  and  must 
be  laboured  after.  A  knowledge  of  German  now  became  her 
object ;  and  she  resolved  to  compel  herself  to  remain  in 
Brussels  till  that  was  gained.  The  strong  yearning  to  go 
home  came  upon  her  ;  the  stronger  self-denying  will  forbade. 
There  was  a  great  internal  struggle ;  every  fibre  of  her  heart 
quivered  in  the  strain  to  master  her  will ;  and,  when  she 
conquered  herself,  she  remained,  not  like  a  victor  calm  and 
supreme  on  the  throne,  but  like  a  panting,  torn,  and  suifer- 
ing  victim.  Her  nerves  and  her  spirits  gave  way.  Her 
health  became  much  shaken. 

^'' Brusselsj  August  Istj  1843. 
"  If  I  complain  in  this  letter,  have  mercy  and  don't  blame 
me,  for,  I  forewarn  you,  I  am  in  low  spirits,  and  that  earth 
and  heaven  are  dreary  and  empty  to  me  at  this  moment.  In 
a  few  days  our  vacation  will  begin ;  everybody  is  joyous 
and  animated  at  the  prospect,  because  everybody  is  to  go 
home.  I  know  that  I  am  to  stay  here  during  the  five  weeks 
that  the  holidays  last,  and  that  I  shall  be  much  alone  during 
that  time,  and  consequently  get  downcast,  and  find  both  days 
and  nights  of  a  weary  length.  It  is  the  first  time  in  my 
life  that  I  have  really  dreaded  the  vacation.  Alas  !  I  can 
hardly  write,  I  have  such  a  dreary  weight  at  my  heart ;  and 
I  do  so  wish  to  go  home.  Is  not  this  childish  ?  Pardon 
me,  for  I  cannot  help  it.  However,  though  I  am  not  strong 
enough  to  bear  up  cheerfully,  I  can  still  bear  up ;  and  I  will 
continue  to  stay  (D.  V.)  some  months  longer,  till  I  have 
acquired  German;  and   then  I  hope  to  see  all  your  faces 


240  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

again.  Would  that  tlie  vacation  were  well  over  !*it  will  pass 
so  slowly.  Do  have  the  Christian  charity  to  write  me  a  long, 
long  letter ;  fill  it  with  the  minutest  details ;  nothing  will  be 
uninteresting.  Do  not  think  it  is  because  people  are  unkind 
to  me  that  I  wish  to  leave  Belgium ;  nothing  of  the  sort. 
Everybody  is  abundantly  civil,  but  home-sickness  keeps  creep- 
ing over  me.  I  cannot  shake  it  off.  Believe  me  very  mer- 
rily, vivaciously,  gaily  yours. 

"  C.  B." 

The  gra7ides  vacances  began  soon  after  the  date  of  this 
letter,  when  she  was  left  in  the  great  deserted  pensionnat, 
with  only  one  teacher  for  a  companion.  This  teacher,  a 
Frenchwoman,  had  always  been  uncongenial  to  her ;  but, 
left  to  each  other's  sole  companionship,  Charlotte  soon  dis- 
covered that  her  associate  was  more  profligate,  more  steeped 
in  a  kind  of  cold,  systematic  sensuality,  than  she  had  before 
imagined  it  possible  for  a  human  being  to  be  ;  and  her  whole 
nature  revolted  from  this  woman's  society.  A  low  nervous 
fever  was  gaining  upon  Miss  Bronte.  She  had  never  been 
a  good  sleeper,  but  now  she  could  not  sleep  at  all.  What- 
ever had  been  disagreeable,  or  obnoxious,  to  her  during  the 
day,  was  presented  when  it  was  over  with  exaggerated 
vividness  to  her  disordered  fancy.  There  were  causes  for 
distress  and  anxiety  in  the  news  from  home,  particularly  as 
regarded  Branwell.  In  the  dead  of  the  night,  lying  awake 
at  the  end  of  the  long  deserted  dormitory,  in  the  vast  and 
silent  house,  every  fear  respecting  those  whom  she  loved,  and 
who  were  so  far  off  in  another  country,  became  a  terrible 
reality,  oppressing  her  and  choking  up  the  very  life-blood  in 
her  heart.  Those  nights  were  times  of  sick,  dreary,  wake- 
ful misery ;  precursors  of  many  such  in  after  years. 

In  the  day-time,  driven  abroad  by  loathing  of  her  com- 
panion and  by  the  weak  restlessness  of  fever,  she  tried  to 
walk  herself  into  such  a  state  of  bodily  fatigue  as  would  in- 


ALONE   AT   BRUSSELS.  241 

duce  sleep.  So  she  went  out,  and  with  weary  steps  would 
traverse  the  Boulevards  and  the  streets,  sometimes  for  hours 
together ,  faltering  and  resting  occasionally  on  some  of  the 
many  benches  placed  for  the  repose  of  happy  groups,  or  for 
solitary  wanderers  like  herself.  Then  up  again — anywhere 
but  to  the  pensionnat — out  to  the  cemetery  where  Martha 
lay — out  beyond  it,  to  the  hills  whence  there  is  nothing  to 
be  seen  but  fields  as  far  as  the  horizon.  The  shades  of  even- 
ing made  her  retrace  her  footsteps — sick  for  want  of  food, 
but  not  hungry  ;  fatigued  with  long  continued  exercise — ^yet 
restless  still,  and  doomed  to  another  weary,  haunted  night 
of  sleeplessness.  She  would  thread  the  streets  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Rue  d'Isabelle,  and  yet  avoid  it  and  its 
occupant,  till  as  late  an  hour  as  she  dare  be  out.  At  last, 
she  was  compelled  to  keep  her  bed  for  some  days,  and 
this  compulsory  rest  did  her  good.  She  was  weak,  but 
less  depressed  in  spirits  than  she  had  been,  when  the 
school  re-opened,  and  her  positive  practical  duties  recom- 
menced. 

She  writes  thus — 

''  October  13,  1843. 
"  Mary  is  getting  on  well,  as  she  deserves  to  do.  I  often 
hear  from  her.  Her  letters  and  yours  are  one  of  my  few 
pleasures.  She  urges  me  very  much  to  leave  Brussels  and 
go  to  her;  but,  at  present,  however  tempted  to  take  such  a 
step,  I  should  not  feel  justified  in  doing  so.  To  leave  a 
certainty  for  a  complete  uncertainty,  would  be  to  the  last 
degree  imprudent.  Notwithstanding  that,  Brussels  is  indeed 
desolate  to  me  now.  Since  the  D.'s  left,  I  have  had  no 
friend.     I  had,  indeed,  some  very  kind  acquaintances  in  the 

family  of  a  Dr. ,  but  they  too  are  gone  now.     They  left 

in  the  latter  part  of  August,  and  I  am  completely  alone.     I 
cannot  count  the  Belgians  anything.     It  is  a  curious  position 
VOL.   T. — 11 


242  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

to  be  SO  utterly  solitary  in  the  midst  of  numbers,  Sometioies 
the  solitude  oppresses  me  to  an  excess.  One  day,  lately,  I 
felt  as  if  I  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  I  went  to  Madame 
Ileger,  and  gave  her  notice.  If  it  had  depended  on  her,  I 
should  certainly  have  soon  been  at  liberty ;  but  M.  Heger 
having  heard  of  what  was  in  agitation,  sent  for  me  the  day 
after,  and  pronounced  with  vehemence  his  decision,  that  I 
ehould  not  leave.  I  could  not,  at  that  time,  have  persevered 
in  my  intention  without  exciting  him  to  anger ;  so  I  prom- 
ised to  stay  a  little  while  longer.  How  long  that  will  be, 
I  do  not  know.  I  should  not  like  to  return  to  England  to 
do  nothing.  I  am  too  old  for  that  now ;  but  if  I  could  hear 
of  a  favourable  opportunity  for  commencing  a  school,  I  think 
I  should  embrace  it.  We  have  as  yet  no  fires  here,  and  I 
suffer  much  from  cold  ;  otherwise,  I  am  well  in  health.  Mr. 
will  take  this  letter  to  England.  He  is  a  pretty-look- 
ing and  pretty  behaved  young  man,  apparently  constructed 
without  a  backbone ;  by  which  I  don't  allude  to  his  cor- 
poral spine,  which  is  all  right  enough,  but  to  his  character. 
"  I  get  on  here  after  a  fashion ;  but  now  that  Mary  D. 
has  left  Brussels,  I  have  nobody  to  speak  to,  for  I  count  the 
Belgians  as  nothing.  Sometimes  I  ask  myself  how  long  shall 
I  stay  here  ;  but  as  yet  I  have  only  asked  the  question  ;  I 
have  not  answered  it.  However,  when  I  have  acquired  as 
much  German  as  I  think  fit,  I  think  I  shall  pack  up  bag  and 
baggage,  and  depart.  Twinges  of  home-sickness  cut  me  to 
the  heart,  every  now  and  then.  To-day  the  weather  is  glar- 
ing, and  I  am  stupefied  with  a  bad  cold  and  headache.  I 
have  nothing  to  fell  you.  One  day  is  like  another  in  this 
place.  I  know  you,  living  in  the  country,  can  hardly  believe 
it  is  possible  life  can  be  monotonous  in  the  centre  of  a  bril- 
liant capital  like  Brussels ;  but  so  it  is.  I  feel  it  most  od 
holidays,  wl^en  all  the  girls  and  teachers  go  out  to  visit,  and 
\i  sometimes  happens  that  I  am  left^  during  several  hours 


HER   ESTKAXGEMENT   FROM   MAllAME    n:E!GER.        243 

quite  alone,  with  four  great  desolate  scliool-rooms  at  my  dis- 
position. I  try  to  read,  I  try  to  write ;  but  in  vain.  I  then 
wander  about  from  room  to  room,  but  the  silence  and  loneli- 
ness of  all  the  house  weighs  dawn  one's  spirits  like  lead.  You 
will  hardly  believe  that  Madame  Heger  (good  and  kind  as  I 
have  described  her)  never  comes  near  me  on  these  occasions. 
I  owD,  I  was  astonished  the  first  time  I  was  left  alone  thus ; 
when  everybody  else  was  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  a  fete  day 
with  their  friends,  and  she  knew  I  was  quite  by  myself,  and 
never  took  the  least  notice  of  me.  Yet,  I  understand,  she 
praises  me  very  much  to  everybody,  and  says  what  excellent 
lessons  I  give.  She  is  not  colder  to  me  than  she  is  to  the 
other  teachers ;  but  they  are  less  dependent  on  her  than  I 
am.  They  have  relations  and  acquaintances  in  Bruxelles. 
You  remember  the  letter  she  wrote  me,  when  I  was  in  Eng- 
land ?  How  kind  and  affectionate  that  was  !  is  it  not  odd  ? 
In  the  mean  time,  the  complaints  I  make  at  present  are  a 
sort  of  relief  which  I  permit  myself.  In  all  other  respects 
I  am  well  satisfied  with  my  position,  and  you  may  say  so  to 
people  who  enquire  after  me  (if  any  one  does).  Write 
to  me,  dear,  whenever  you  can.  You  do  a  good  deal  whea 
you  send  me  a  letter,  for  you  comfort  a  very  desolate  heart.' 

One  of  the  reasons  for  the  silent  estrangement  between 
Madame  Heger  and  Miss  Bronte,  in  the  second  year  of  her 
residence  at  Brussels,  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact,  that  the 
English  Protestant's  dislike  of  Romanism  increased  with  her 
knowledge  of  it,  and  its  effects  upon  those  who  professed  it ; 
and  when  occasion  called  for  an  expression  of  opinion  from 
Charlotte  Bronte,  she  was  uncompromising  truth.  Madame 
Heger,  on  the  opposite  side,  was  not  merely  a  Eoman  Cath- 
olic, she  was  devote.  Not  of  a  warm  or  impulsive  tempera- 
ment, she  was  naturally  governed  by  her  conscience,  rather 
than  by  her  affections ;  and  her  conscience  was  in  the  handaf 


214  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

of  her  religious  guides.  She  considered  any  slight  thrown 
upon  her  Church  as  blasphemy  against  the  Holy  Truth ;  and, 
though  she  was  not  given  to  open  expression  of  her  thoughts 
and  feelings,  yet  her  increasing  coolness  of  behaviour  showed 
how  much  her  most  cherished  opinions  had  been  wounded. 
Thus,  although  there  was  never  any  explanation  of  Madame 
Heger's  change  of  manner,  this  may  be  given  as  one  great 
reason  why,  about  this  time,  Charlotte  was  made  painfully 
conscious  of  a  silent  estrangement  between  them;  an  es- 
trangement of  which,  perhaps,  the  former  was  hardly  aware. 
I  have  before  alluded  to  intelligence  from  home,  calculated 
to  distress  Charlotte  exceedingly  with  fears  respecting  Bran- 
well,  which  I  shall  speak  of  more  at  large  when  the  realiza- 
tion of  her  worst  apprehensions  came  to  affect  the  daily  life 
of  herself  and  her  sisters.  I  allude  to  the  subject  again  here, 
in  order  that  the  reader  may  remember  the  gnawing,  private 
cares,  which  she  had  to  bury  in  her  own  heart ;  and  the  pain 
of  which  could  only  be  smothered  for  a  time  under  the  dili- 
gent fulfilment  of  present  duty.  Another  dim  sorrow  was 
faintly  perceived  at  this  time.  Her  father's  eyesight  began 
to  fail ;  it  was  not  unlikely  that  he  might  shortly  become 
blind  ;  more  of  his  duty  must  devolve  on  a  curate,  and  Mr. 
Bronte,  always  liberal,  would  have  to  pay  at  a  higher  rate 
than  he  had  heretofore  done  for  his  assistance. 
She  wrote  thus  to  Emily  : — 

''Dec.  \si,  1843. 
"  This  is  Sunday  morning.  They  are  at  their  idolatrous 
*  messe,'  and  I  am  here,  that  is  in  the  Eefectoire.  I  should 
like  uncommonly  to  be  in  the  dining-room  at  home,  or  in  the 
kitchen,  or  in  the  back  kitchen.  I  should  like  even  to  be 
cutting  up  the  hash,  with  the  clerk  and  some  register  people 
at  the  other  table,  and  you  standing  by,  watching  that  I  put 
enough  flour,  not  too   much  pepper,   and,  above  all,  that  T 


A  VISION  OF  iio:mt:.  245 

save  the  best  pieces  of  the  leg  of  mutton  for  Tiger  and 
Keeper,  the  first  of  which  personages  would  be  jumping 
about  the  dish  and  carving-knife,  and  the  latter  standing  like 
a  devouring  flame  on  the  kitchen-floor.  To  complete  the 
picture,  Tabby  blowing  the  fire,  in  order  to  boil  the  potatoes 
to  a  sort  of  vegetable  glue  !  How  divine  are  these  recollec- 
tions to  me  at  this  moment !  Yet  I  have  no  thought  of 
coming  home  just  now.  I  lack  a  real  pretext  for  doing  so  ; 
it  is  true  this  place  is  dismal  to  me,  but  I  cannot  go  home 
without  a  fixed  prospect  when  I  get  there  ;  and  this  prospect 
must  not  be  a  situation ;  that  would  be  jumping  out  of  the 
frying-pan  into  the  fire.      You  call  yourself  idle  !  absurd, 

absurd  !      Is  papa   well  ?     Are   you   well  ?    and 

Tabby  ?  You  ask  about  Queen  Victoria's  visit  to  Brussels. 
I  saw  her  for  an  instant  flashing  through  the  Kue  Koyale  in 
a  carriage  and  six,  surrounded  by  soldiers.  She  was  laugh- 
ing and  talking  very  gaily.  She  looked  a  little  stout,  viva- 
cious lady,  very  plainly  dressed,  not  much  dignity  or  preteti- 
sion  about  her.  The  Belgians  liked  her  very  well  on  the 
whole.  They  said  she  enlivened  the  sombre  court  of  King 
Leopold,  which  is  usually  as  gloomy  as  a  conventicle.  Write 
to  me  again  soon.  Tell  me  whether  papa  really  wants  me 
very  much  to  come  home,  and  whether  you  do  likewise.  I 
have  an  idea  that  I  sliould  be  of  no  use  there — a  sort  of  aged 
person  upon  the  parish.  I  pray,  with  heart  and  soul,  that 
all  may  continue  well  at  Haworth ;  above  all  in  our  grey 
half-inhabited  house.  G-od  bless  the  walls  thereof !  Safety, 
health,  happiness,  and  prosperity  to  you,  papa,  and  Tabby. 
Amen. 

"  C.  B." 

Towar is  the  end  of  this  year  (1843)  various  reasons  con 
spired  with  the  causes  of  anxiety  which  have  been  mentioned 
to  make  her  feel  that  her  presence  was  absolutely  and  impiera 


24G  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

tively  required  at  home,  while  she  had  acquired  all  that  she 
proposed  to  herself  in  coming  to  Brussels  the  second  time  ; 
and  waSj  moreover,  no  longer  regarded  with  the  former  kind- 
liness of  feeling  by  Madame  Heger.  In  consequence  of  this 
state  of  things,  working  down  with  sharp  edge  into  a  sen- 
sitive mind,  she  suddenly  announced  to  that  lady  her  imme- 
diate intention  of  returning  to  England.  Both  M.  and 
Madame  Heger  agreed  that  it  would  be  for  the  best,  when 
they  learnt  only  that  part  of  the  case  which  ^he  could  reveal 
to  them — namely,  Mr.  Bronte's  increasing  blindness.  But 
as  the  inevitable  moment  of  separation  from  people  and 
places,  among  which  she  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours, 
drew  near,  her  spirits  gave  way  ;  she  had  the  natural  pre- 
sentiment that  she  saw  them  all  for  the  last  time,  and  she 
received  but  a  dead  kind  of  comfort  from  being  reminded 
by  her  friends  that  Brussels  and  Haworth  were  not  so  very 
far  apart ;  that  access  from  one  place  to  the  other  was  not  so 
difficult  or  impracticable  as  her  tears  would  seem  to  predi- 
cate ;  nay,  there  was  some  talk  of  one  of  Madame  Heger's 
daughters  being  sent  to  her  as  a  pupil  if  she  fulfilled  her  in- 
tention of  trying  to  begin  a  school.  To  facilitate  her  success 
in  this  plan,  should  she  ever  engage  in  it,  M.  Heger  gave 
her  a  kind  of  diploma,  dated  from,  and  sealed  with  the  seal 
of  the  Athenee  Boyale  de  Bruxelles,  certifying  that  she  was 
perfectly  capable  of  teaching  the  French  language,  having 
well  studied  the  grammar  and  composition  thereof,  and, 
moreover,  having  prepared  herself  for  teaching  by  studying 
and  practising  the  best  methods  of  instruction.  This  certi- 
ficate is  dated  December  29th,  1843,  and  on  the  2nd  of  Jan- 
uary, 1844,  she  arrived  at  Haworth. 

On  the  23rd  of  the  month  she  writes  as  follows  : — 

"  Every  one  asks  me  what  I  am  going  to  do,  now  that  I 
am  returned  home ;  and  every  one  seems  to  expect  that  I 


UER   EETURN*  FEOM  BRUSSELS.  247 

should  immediately  commence  a  school.     In  truth  it  is  what 
I  should  wish  to  do.     I  desire  it  above  all  things.     I  havo 
sufficient  money  for  the  undertaking,  and  I  hope  now  suffi- 
cient qualifications  to  give  me  a  fair  chance  of  success ;  yet  T 
cannot  yet  permit  myself  to  enter  upon  life — to  touch  the 
object  which  seems  now  within  my  reach,  and  which  I  have 
been  so  long  straining  to  attain.     You  will  ask  me  why? 
It  is  on  papa's  account ;  he  is  now,  as  you  know,  getting  old, 
and  it  grieves  me  to  tell  you  that  he  is  losing  his  sight.     I 
have  felt  for  some  months  that  I  ought  not  to  be  away  from 
him ;  and  I  feel  now  that  it  would  be  too  selfish  to  leave  him 
(at  least  as  long  as  Branwell  and  Anne  are  absent),  in  order 
to  pursue  selfish  interests  of  my  own.     With  the  help  of  God 
r  will  try  to  deny  myself  in  this  matter  and  to  wait. 

"  I  suffered  much  before  I  left  Brussels.     I  think,  how- 
ever long  I  live,  I  shall  not  forget  what  the  parting  with  M. 
Heger  cost   me.      It  grieved  me  so   much  to   grieve  him 
who  has  been  so  true,  kind,  and  disinterested  a  friend.     At 
parting  he  gave  me  a  kind  of  diploma  certifying  my  abilities 
as  a  teacher,  sealed  with  the  seal  of  the  Athenee  lioyal,  of 
which  he  is  professor.     I  was  surprised   also  at  the  degree 
of  regret  expressed  by  my  Belgian  pupils,  when  they  knew 
I  was  going  to  leave.     I  did  not  think  it  had  been  in  their 
phlegmatic  nature.  ......    I  do  not  know  whether  you 

feel  as  I  do,  but  there  are  times  now  when  it  appears  to  me 
as  if  all  my  ideas  and  feelings,  except  a  few  friendships  and 
affections,  are  changed  from  what  they  used  to  be ;  some- 
thing in  me,  which  used  to  be  enthusiasm,  is  tamed  down 
and  broken.  I  have  fewer  illusions ;  what  I  wish  for 
now  is  active  exertion — a  stake  in  life.  Haworth  seems 
such  a  lonely,  quiet  spot,  buried  away  from  the  world.  I  no 
longer  regard  myself  as  young — indeed,  I  shall  soon  be 
twenty-eight ;  and  it  seems  as  if  I  ought  to  be  working  and 
braving  the  rough  realities  of  the  world,  as  other  people  do. 


248  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

It  is,  however,  my  duty  to  restrain  this  feeliiig  at  present 
and  I  will  endeavour  to  do  so." 

Of  course  her  absent  sister  and  brother  obtained  a  holiday 
to  welcome  her  return  home,  and  in  a  few  weeks  she  was 
spared  to  pay  a  visit  to  her  friend  at  B.  But  she  was  far 
from  well  and  strong,  and  the  short  journey  of  fourteen  miles 
geems  to  have  fatigued  her  greatly. 

Soon  after  she  came  back  to  Haworth,  in  a  letter  to  one 
of  the  household  in  which  she  had  been  staying,  there  occurs 
this  passage  : — *^  Our  poor  little  cat  has  been  ill  two  days, 
and  is  just  dead.  It  is  piteous  to  see  even  an  animal  lying 
lifeless.  Enily  is  sorry."  These  few  words  relate  to  points 
in  the  characters  of  the  two  sisters,  which  I  must  dwell 
upon  a  little.  Charlotte  was  more  than  commonly  tender 
in  her  treatment  of  all  dumb  creatures,  and  they,  with  that 
fine  instinct  so  often  noticed,  were  invariably  attracted  to- 
wards her.  The  deep  and  exaggerated  consciousness  of  her 
personal  defects — the  constitutional  absence  of  hope,  which 
made  her  slow  to  trust  human  affection,  and  consequently 
slow  to  respond  to  any  manifestation  of  it — made  her  manner 
shy  and  constrained  to  men  and  women,  and  even  to  children. 
We  have  seen  something  of  this  trembling  distrust  of  her 
own  capability  of  inspiring  affection,  in  the  grateful  surprise 
she  expresses  at  the  regret  felt  by  her  Belgian  pupils  at  her 
departure.  But  not  merely  were  her  actions  kind,  her  words 
and  tones  were  ever  gentle  and  caressing,  towards  animals ; 
and  she  quickly  noticed  the  least  want  of  care  or  tenderness 
on  the  part  of  others  towards  any  poor  brute  creature.  The 
readers  of  "  Shirley  "  may  remember  that  it  is  one  of  the 
tests  which  the  heroine  applies  to  her  lover. 

"  Do  you  know  what  soothsayers  I  would   consult  ? " 
" The  little  Irish  beggar  that  comes 


Eivnir  Bronte's  affection  fok  animals.      249 

barefoot  to  my  door ;  the  mouse  that  steals  out  of  the  cranny 
in  my  wainscot ;  the  bird  in  frost  and  snow  that  pecks  at  my 
window  for  a  crumb ;  the  dog  that  licks  my  hand  and  sits 

beside  my  knee I  know  somebody  to  whose  knee  the 

black  cat  loves  to  climb,  against  whose  shoulder  and  cheek 
it  likes  to  purr.  The  old  dog  always  comes  out  of  his  ken- 
nel and  wags  his  tail,  and  whines  affectionately  when  some- 
body passes."  [For  "  somebody  "  and  "  he,"  read  "  Charlotte 
Bronte  "  and  "  she."]  "  He  quietly  strokes  the  cat,  and  lets 
her  sit  while  he  conveniently  can ;  and  when  he  must  dis- 
turb her  by  rising,  he  puts  her  softly  down,  and  never  flings 
her  from  him  roughly :  he  always  whistles  to  the  dog,  and 
gives  him  a  caress." 

The  feeling,  which  in  Charlotte  partook  of  something  of 
the  n.ature  of  an  affection,  was,  with  Emily,  more  of  a  passion. 
Some  one  speaking  of  her  to  me,  in  a  careless  kind  of  strength 
of  expression,  said,  ^^  she  never  showed  regard  to  any  human 
creature ;  all  her  love  was  reserved  for  animals."  The  help- 
lessness of  an  animal  was  its  passport  to  Charlotte's  heart  ; 
the  fierce,  wild,  intractability  of  its  nature  was  what  often 
recommended  it  to  Emily.  Speaking  of  her  dead  sister,  the 
former  told  me  that  from  ner  many  traits  in  Shirley's  char- 
acter were  taken ;  her  way  of  sitting  on  the  rug  reading, 
with  her  arm  round  her  rough  bull-dog's  neck ;  her  calling 
to  a  strange  dog,  running  past,  with  hanging  head  and  lolling 
tongue,  to  give  it  a  merciful  draught  of  water,  its  maddened 
snap  at  her,  her  nobly  stern  presence  of  mind,  going  right 
into  the  kitchen,  and  taking  up  one  of  Tabby's  red-hot 
Italian  irons  to  sear  the  bitten  place,  and  telling  no  one,  till 
the  danger  was  well-nigh  over,  for  fear  of  the  terrors  that 
might  beset  their  weaker  minds.  All  this,  looked  upon  as  a 
well-invented  fiction  in  "Shirley,"  was  written  down  by 
Charlotte  with  streaming  eyes ;  it  was  the  literal  true  ao- 
VOL.  I — 11* 


250  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

count  of  what  Emily  had  done.  The  same  tawny  bull-dog 
(with  his  ^'strangled  whistle"),  called  '^  Tartar"  in  "  Shir- 
ley," was  ^'  Keeper  "  in  Haworth  parsonage  ;  a  gift  to  Emily 
With  the  gift  came  a  warning.  Keeper  was  faithful  to  the 
depths  of  his  nature  as  long  as  he  was  with  friends ;  but  he 
who  struck  him  with  a  stick  or  whip,  roused  the  relentless 
nature  of  the  brute,  who  flew  at  his  throat  forthwith,  and 
Held  him  there  till  one  or  the  other  was  at  the  point  of  death. 
Now  Keeper's  household  fault  was  this.  He  loved  to  steal 
up-stairs,  and  stretch  his  square,  tawny  limbs,  on  the  com- 
fortable beds,  covered  over  with  delicate  white  counterpanes. 
But  the  cleanliness  of  the  parsonage  arrangements  was  per- 
fect ;  and  this  habit  of  Keeper's  was  so  objectionable,  that 
Emily,  in  reply  to  Tabby's  remonstrances,  declared  that,  if 
he  was  found  again  transgressing,  she  herself,  in  defiance  of 
warning  and  his  well-known  ferocity  of  nature,  would  beat 
him  so  severely  that  he  would  never  offend  again.  In  the 
gathering  dusk  of  an  autumn  evening.  Tabby  came,  half 
triumphantly,  half  tremblingly,  but  in  great  wrath,  to  tell 
Emily  that  Keeper  was  lying  on  the  best  bed,  in  drowsy 
voluptuousness.  Charlotte  saw  Emily's  whitening  face,  and 
get  mouth,  but  dared  not  speak  to  interfere ;  no  one  dared 
when  Emily's  eyes  glowed  in  that  manner  out  of  the  pale- 
ness of  her  face,  and  when  her  lips  were  so  compressed  into 
stone.  She  went  up-stairs,  and  Tabby  and  Charlotte  stood 
in  the  gloomy  passage  below,  full  of  the  dark  shadows  of 
coming  night.  Down-stairs  came  Emily,  dragging  after  her 
the  unwilling  Keeper,  his  hind  legs  set  in  a  heavy  attitude 
of  resistance,  held  by  the  "  scuft  of  his  neck,"  but  growling 
low  and  savagely  all  the  time.  The  watchers  would  fain 
have  spoken,  but  durst  not,  for  fear  of  taking  off  Emily's  at- 
tention, and  causing  her  to  avert  her  head  for  a  moment 
from  the  enraged  brute.  She  let  him  go,  planted  in  a  dark 
corner  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs ;  no  time  was  there  to 


EMILY   AND   HEB   DOG    ^^  KEEPEK."  251 

fetch  stick  or  rod,  for  fear  of  the  strangling  clutch  at  her 
throat — her  hare  clenched  fist  struck  against  his  red  fierce 
ejes,  before  he  had  time  to  make  his  spring,  and  in  the 
language  of  the  turf,  she  "  punished  him  "  till  his  eyes  were 
swelled  up,  and  the  half -blind,  stupefied  beast  was  led  to  his 
accustomed  lair,  to  have  his  swelled  head  fomented  and 
cared  for  by  the  very  Emily  herself.  The  generous  dog 
owed  her  no  grudge ;  he  loved  her  dearly  ever  after ;  he 
walked  first  among  the  mourners  to  her  funeral ;  he  slept 
moaning  for  nights  at  the  door  of  her  empty  room,  and  never, 
so  to  speak,  rejoiced,  dog  fashion,  after  her  death.  He,  in 
his  turn,  was  mourned  over  by  the  surviving  sister.  Let 
us  somehow  hope,  in  half  Red  Indian  creed,  that  he  follows 
Emily  now ;  and,  when  he  rests,  sleeps  on  some  soft  white 
bed  of  dreams,  unpunished  when  he  awakens  to  the  life  of 
the  land  of  shadows. 

Now  we  can  understand  the  force  of  the  words,  ' '  Our 
poor  little  cat  is  dead.     Emily  is  sorry." 


252  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BROJSTTE. 


CHAPTEE  XIIL 

The  moors  were  a  great  resource  this  spring;  Emily  and 
Charlotte  walked  out  on  them  perpetually,  "  to  the  great 
damage  of  our  shoes,  but,  I  hope,  to  the  benefit  of  our 
health."  The  old  plan  of  school-keeping  was  often  discussed 
in  these  rambles ;  but  in-doors  they  set  with  vigour  to  shirt- 
making  for  the  absent  Branwell,  and  pondered  in  silence 
over  their  past  and  future  life.  At  last  they  came  to  a  de- 
termination. 

*^  I  have  seriously  entered  into  the  enterprise  of  keeping 
a  school — or  rather,  taking  a  limited  number  of  pupils  at 
home.     That  is,  I  have  begun  in  good  earnest  to  seek  for 

pupils.     I  wrote  to  Mrs. "  (the  lady  with  whom  she  had 

lived  as  governess,  just  before  going  to  Brussels),  "  not  ask 
ing  her  for  her  daughter — I  cannot  do  that — ^but  informing 

her  of  my  intention.     I  received  an  answer  from  Mr. 

expressive  of,  I  believe,  sincere  regret  that  I  had  not  inform- 
ed them  a  month  sooner,  in  which  case,  he  said,  they  would 
gladly  have  sent  me  their  own  daughter,  and  also  Colonel 
S.'s,  but  that  now  both  were  promised  to  Miss  C.  I  was 
partly  disappointed  by  this  answer,  and  partly  gratified ;  in- 
deed, I  derived  quite  an  impulse  of  encouragement  from  tho 
warm  assurance  that  if  T  had  but  applied  a  little  sooner  they 
would  certainly  have  sent  me  their  daughter.     I  own,  I  liad 


PLANS   FOR   COMMENCINa   A   SCHOOL.  25S 

misgivings  that  nobody  would  be  willing  to  send  a  child  for 
education  to  Haworth.  These  misgivings  are  partly  done 
away  with.  I  have  written  also  to  Mrs.  B.  and  have  en- 
.  closed  the  diploma  which  M.  H6ger  gave  me  before  I  left 
Brussels.  I  have  not  yet  received  her  answer,  but  I  wait  for 
it  with  some  anxiety.  I  do  not  expect  that  she  will  send  me 
any  of  her  children,  but  if  she  would,  I  dare  say  she  could 
recommend  me  other  pupils.  Unfortunately,  she  knows 
us  only  very  slightly.  As  soon  as  I  can  get  an  assurance  of 
only  one  pupil,  I  will  have  cards  of  terms  printed,  and  will 
commence ,  the  repairs  necessary  in  the  house.  I  wish  all 
that  to  be  done  before  winter.  I  think  of  fixing  the  board 
and  English  education  at  25Z.  per  annum." 

Again,  at  a  later  date,  July  24th,  in  the  same  year,  she 
writes : — 

"I  am  driving  on  with  my  small  matter  as  well  as  1 
can.  I  have  written  to  all  the  friends  on  whom  I  have  the 
slightest  claim,  and  to  some  on  whom  I  have  no  claim  ;  Mrs. 
B.  for  example.  On  her,  also,  I  have  actually  made  bold 
to  call.  She  was  exceedingly  polite ;  regretted  that  hei 
children  were  already  at  school  at  Liverpool ;  thought  the 
undertaking  a  most  praiseworthy  one,  but  feared  I  should 
have  some  difficulty  in  making  it  succeed,  on  account  of  the 
situation.  Such  is  the  answer  I  receive  from  almost  every 
Dne.  I  tell  them  the  retired  situation  is,  in  some  points  of 
view,  an  advantage;  that  were  it  in  the  midst  of  a  large 
town  I  could  not  pretend  to  take  pupils  on  terms  so  mode- 
rate (Mrs.  B.  remarked  that  she  thought  the  terms  very 
moderate),  but  that,  as  it  is,  not  having  house-rent  to  pay, 
we  can  offer  the  same  privileges  of  education  that  are  to  be 
had  in  expensive  seminaries,  at  little  more  than  half  their 
price ;  and  as  our  number  must  be  limited,  we  can  devote  a 


251  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

large  share  of  time  and  pains  to  eacli  pupil.  Thank  you  for 
the  very  pretty  little  purse  you  have  sent  me.  I  make  to 
you  a  curious  return  in  the  shape  of  half  a  dozen  cards  of 
terms.  Make  such  use  of  them  as  your  judgment  shall  dic- 
tate. You  will  see  that  I  have  fixed  the  sum  at  35^.,  which 
I  think  is  the  just  medium,  considering  advantages  and  dis- 
advantages." 

This  was  written  in  July ,  August,  September,  and  Oc- 
tober passed  away,  and  no  pupils  were  to  be  heard  cf.  Day 
after  day,  there  was  a  little  hope  felt  by  the  sisters  until  the 
post  came  in.  But  Haworth  village  was  wild  and  lonely, 
and  the  Brontes  but  little  known,  owing  to  their  want  of 
connections.  Charlotte  writes  on  the  subject,  in  the  early 
winter  months,  to  this  effect : — 

"  I,  Emily,  and  Anne,  are  truly  obliged  to  you  for  the 
efforts  you  have  made  in  our  behalf;  and  if  you  have  not 
been  successful,  you  are  only  like  ourselves.  Every  one 
wishes  us  well ;  but  there  are  no  pupils  to  be  had.  We  have 
no  present  intention,  however,  of  breaking  our  hearts  on  the 
subject,  still  less  of  feeling  mortified  at  defeat.  The  effort 
must  be  beneficial,  whatever  the  result  may  be,  because  it 
teaches  us  experience,  and  an  additional  knowledge  of  this 
world.     I  send  you  two  more  circulars." 

A  mo  ath  later,  she  says : — 

"  We  have  made  no  alterations  yet  in  our  house.  It 
would  be  folly  to  do  so,  while  there  is  so  little  likelihood  of 
Gur  ever  getting  pupils.  I  fear  you  are  giving  yourself  too 
much  trouble  on  our  account.  Depend  upon  it,  if  you  were 
to  persuade  a  mamma  to  bring  her  child  to  Haworth,  the  as- 
pect of  the  place  would  frighten  her,  and  she  would  proba* 


GLOOMY   DAYS.  255 

bly  take  the  dear  girl  back  with  her,  instautcr.  We  are 
glad  that  we  have  made  the  attempt,  and  we  will  not  be  cast 
down  because  it  has  not  succeeded." 

There  were,  probably,  growing  up  in  each  sister's  hearty 
secret  unacknowledged  feelings  of  relief,  that  their  plan  had 
not  succeeded.  Yes !  a  dull  sense  of  relief  that  their  cher- 
ished project  had  been  tried  and  had  failed.  For  that 
house,  which  was  to  be  regarded  as  an  occasional  home  for 
their  brother,  could  hardly  be  a  fitting  residence  for  the 
children  of  strangers.  They  had,  in  all  likelihood,  become 
silently  aware  that  his  habits  were  such  as  to  render  his  soci- 
ety at  times  most  undesirable.  Possibly,  too,  they  had,  by 
this  time,  heard  distressing  rumours  concerning  the  cause  of 
that  remorse  and  agony  of  mind,  which  at  times  made  him 
restless  and  unnaturally  merry,  at  times  rendered  him  moody 
and  irritable. 

In  January,  1845,  Charlotte  says  :— "  Branwell  has  been 

quieter  and  less  irritable,  on  the  whole,  this  time  than  he 

was  in  summer.     Anne  is,  as  usual,  always  good,  mild,  and 

patient.''     The  deep-sented  pain  which  he  was  to  occasion  to 

his  relations  had   now  taken  a  decided  form,  and  pressed 

heavily  on  Charlotte's  health  and  spirits.    Early  in  this  year, 

she  went  to  H.  to  bid  good-by  to  her  dear  friend  Mary,  who 

was  leaving  England  for  Australia.     But  a  weight  hung 

over  her — the  gloom  preceding  the  full  knowledge  of  sin  in 

which  her  brother  was  an  accomplice ;  which  was  dragging 

him  down  to  confirmed  habits  of  intemperance ;  yet  by  which 

he  was  so  bewitched,  that  no  remonstrance,  however  stern, 

on  the  part  of  others — ^no  temporary  remorse,  however  keen 

—could  make  him  shake  off  the  infatuation  that  bound  him. 

The   story  must  be  told.     If  I  could,   I  would   have 

voided  it ;  but  not  merely  is  it  so  well  known  to  many  liv- 

ng  as  to  be,  in  a  manner,  public  property,  but  it  is  possible 


256  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BRONTE. 

that,  by  revealing  the  misery,  the  gnawing,  life-long  misery 
the  degrading  habits,  the  early  death  of  her  partner  in  guilt 
— the  acute  and  long-enduring  agony  of  his  family — to  the 
wretched  woman,  who  not  only  survives,  but  passes  about  in 
the  gay  circles  of  London  society,  as  a  vivacious,  well-dress- 
ed, flourishing  widow,  there  may  be  awakened  in  her  some 
feelings  of  repentance. 

Br  an  well,  I  have  mentioned,  had  obtained  a  situation  as. 
a  private  tutor.  Full  of  available  talent,  a  brilliant  talker, 
a  good  writer,  apt  at  drawing,  ready  of  appreciation,  and . 
with  a  not  unhandsome  person,  he  took  the  fancy  of  a  mar- 
ried woman,  nearly  twenty  years  older  than  himself.  It  is 
no  excuse  for  him  to  say  that  she  began  the  first  advances, 
and  "  made  love  "  to  him.  She  was  so  bold  and  hardened, 
that  she  did  it  in  the  very  presence  of  her  children,  fast  ap- 
proaching to  maturity ;  and  they  would  threaten  her  that, 
if  she  did  not  grant  them  such  and  such  indulgences,  they 
would  tell  their  bed -ridden  father  "  how  she  went  on  with 
Mr.  Bronte."  He  was  so  beguiled  by  this  mature  and 
wicked  woman,  that  he  went  home  for  his  holidays  reluc- 
tantly, stayed  there  as  short  a  time  as  possible,  perplexing 
and  distressing  them  all  by  his  extraordinary  conduct — at 
one  time  in  the  highest  spirits,  at  another,  in  the  deepest 
depression — accusing  himself  of  blackest  guilt  and  treachery 
without  specifying  what  they  were  ;  and  altogether  evincino 
an  irritability  of  disposition  bordering  on  insanity. 

Charlotte  and  her  sister  suffered  acutely  from  his  mys- 
terious behaviour.  He  expressed  himself  more  than  satisfied 
with  his  situation ;  he  was  remaining  in  it  for  a  longer  time 
than  he  had  ever  done  in  any  kind  of  employment  before ; 
so  they  could  not  coajecture  that  anything  there  made  him 
BO  wilful  and  restless,  and  full  of  both  levity  and  misery. 
But  a  sense  of  something  wrong  connected  with  him,  sickened 
and  oppressed  them.     They  began  to  lose  all  hope  in  his 


SAD  FOEEBODl^aS.  257 

future  career.  He  was  no  longer  the  family  pride  ;  an  indis- 
tinct dread  was  creeping  over  their  minds  that  he  might  turn 
out  their  deep  disgrace.  But,  I  believe,  they  shrank  from 
any  attempt  to  define  their  fears,  and  spoke  of  him  to  each 
other  as  little  as  possible.  They  could  not  help  but  think, 
and  mourn,  and  wonder. 

''Feh.  20,  1845. 
"  I  spent  a  week  at  H.,  not  very  pleasantly ;  headache, 
sickliness,  and  flatness  of  spirits,  made  me  a  poor  companion, 
a  sad  drag  on  the  vivacious  and  loquacious  gaiety  of  all  the 
other  inmates  of  the  house.  I  never  was  fortunate  enough 
to  be  able  to  rally,  for  as  much  as  a  single  hour,  while  I  was 
there.  I  am  sure  all,  with  the  exception  perhaps  of  Mary, 
were  very  glad  when  I  took  my  departure.  I  begin  to  per- 
ceive that  I  have  too  little  life  in  me,  now-a-days,  to  be  fit 
company  for  any  except  very  quiet  people.  Is  it  age,  or 
what  else,  that  changes  me  so  ?  " 

Alas  !  she  hardly  needed  to  have  asked  this  question. 
How  could  she  be  otherwise  than  ^'  flat-spirited,"  "  a  poor 
companion,"  and  a  "  sad  drag  "  on  the  gaiety  of  those  who 
were  light-hearted  and  happy  !  Her  honest  plan  for  earning 
her  own  livelihood  had  fallen  away,  crumbled  to  ashes, 
after  all  her  preparations,  not  a  pupil  had  ofiered  herself; 
and,  instead  of  being  sorry  that  this  wish  of  many  years 
could  not  be  realized,  she  had  reason  to  be  glad.  Her  poor 
father,  nearly  sightless,  depended  upon  her  cares  in  his  blind 
helplessness ;  but  this  was  a  sacred  pious  charge,  the  duties 
of  which  she  was  blessed  in  fulfilling.  The  black  gloom 
hung  over  what  had  once  been  the  brightest  hope  of  the 
family — over  Branwell,  and  the  mystery  in  which  his  way- 
ward conduct  was  enveloped.  Somehow  and  sometime,  he 
would  have  to  turn  to  his  home  as  a  hiding  place  for  shame 


258  LIFE    OF   CIIAELOTTE   BEONTE. 

sucli  was  the  sad  foreboding  of  his  sisters.  Then  how  could 
she  be  cheerful,  when  she  was  losing  her  dear  and  noblo 
Mary,  for  such  a  length  of  time  and  distance  of  space  that 
her  heart  might  well  prophesy  that  it  was  "  for  ever "  ? 
Long  before,  she  had  written  of  Mary  T.,  that  she  *  was  full 
of  feelings  noble,  warm,  generous,  devoted,  and  profound- 
God  bless  her  !  I  never  hope  to  see  in  this  world  a  charac- 
ter more  truly  noble.  She  would  die  willingly  for  one  she 
loved.  Her  intellect  and  attainments  are  of  the  very  highest 
standard."  And  this  was  the  friend  whom  she  was  to  lose  ! 
Hear  that  friend's  account  of  their  final  interview  :^ 

"When  I  last  saw  Charlotte  (Jan.  1845),  she  told  me 
she  had  quite  decided  to  stay  at  home.  She  owned  she  did 
not  like  it.  Her  health  was  weak.  She  said  she  should  like 
any  change  at  first,  as  she  had  liked  Brussels  at  first,  and 
she  thought  that  there  must  be  some  possibility  for  some 
people  of  having  a  life  of  more  variety  and  more  communion 
with  human  kind,  but  she  saw  none  for  her.  I  told  her  very 
warmly,  that  she  ought  not  to  stay  at  home ;  that  to  spend 
the  next  five  years  at  home,  in  solitude  and  weak  health, 
would  ruin  her ;  that  she  would  never  recover  it.  Such  a 
dark  shadow  came  over  her  face  when  I  said,  *  Think  of  what 
you  '11  be  five  years  hence  ! '  that  I  stopped,  and  said,  ^  Don't 
cry,  Charlotte  ! '  She  did  not  cry,  but  went  on  walking  up 
and  down  the  room,  and  said  in  a  little  while,  ^  But  I  intend 
to  stay,  Polly.' " 

A  few  weeks  after  she  parted  from  Mary,  she  gives  thi 
account  of  her  days  at  Haworth. 

"  March  24,  1845. 
"  I  can  hardly  tell  you  how  time  gets  on  at  Haworth 
There  is  no  event  whatever  to  mark  its  progress.     One  day 


HER   APPEEIIENSION   OF   BLINDNESS.  259 

resembles  another;  and  all  have  heavy,  lifeless  physiogno- 
mies. Sunday,  baking-day,  and  Saturday,  are  the  only  ones 
that  have  any  distinctive  mark.  Meantime,  life  wears  away. 
I  shall  soon  be  thirty ;  and  I  have  done  nothing  yet.  Some- 
times I  get  melancholy  at  the  prospect  before  and  behind 
me.  Yet  it  is  wrong  and  foolish  to  repine.  Undoubtedly, 
my  duty  directs  me  to  stay  at  home  for  the  present.  There 
was  a  time  when  Haworth  was  a  very  pleasant  place  to  me  ; 
it  is  not  so  now.  I  feel  as  if  we  were  all  buried  here.  I 
long  to  travel ;  to  work ;  to  live  a  life  of  action.  Excuse 
me,  dear,  for  troubling  you  with  my  fruitless  wishes.  I  will 
put  by  the  rest,  and  not  trouble  you  with  them.  You  must 
write  to  me.  If  you  knew  how  welcome  your  letters  are, 
you  would  write  very  often.  Your  letters,  and  the  French 
newspapers,  are  the  only  messengers  that  come  to  me  from 
the  outer  world  beyond  our  moors ;  and  very  welcome  mes- 
sengers they  are." 

One  of  her  daily  employments  was  to  read  to  her  father, 
and  it  required  a  little  gentle  diplomacy  on  her  part  to  effect 
this  duty;  for  there  were  times  when  the  offer  of  another  to 
do  what  he  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to  do  for  himself, 
reminded  him  only  too  painfully  of  the  deprivation  under 
which  he  was  suffering.  And,  in  secret,  she,  too,  dreaded  a 
similar  loss  for  herself.  Long-continued  ill  health,  a  deranged 
condition  of  the  liver,  her  close  application  to  minute  draw- 
ing and  writing  in  her  younger  days,  her  now  habitual  sleep- 
lessness at  nights,  the  many  bitter  noiseless  tears  she  had  shed 
over  Branwell's  mysterious  and  distressing  conduct — all  these 
causes  were  telling  on  her  poor  eyes ;  and  about  this  time 
she  thus  writes  to  M.  Heger  : — 

"  II  n'y  a  rien  que  je  craigns  comme  le  d6soeuvrement, 
J'inertie  la  lethargic  des  facultes.     Quand  le  corps  est  pares 


260  IJFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

fseux  Fesprit  souffre  cruellement ;  je  ne  connaitrals  pas  cotta 
lethargie,  si  je  pouvais  ecrire.  Autrefois  je  passais  des  jour- 
nees  des  semaines,  des  mois  entiers  a  ecrire,  et  pas  tout  a  faiii 
sans  fruit,  puisque  Southey  et  Coleridge,  deux  de  nos  meil- 
leurs  auteurs  a  qui  j'ai  envoy e  certain  manuscrits,  en  ont 
bien  voulu  temoigner  leur  approbation ;  mais  a  present,  j'ai  la 
vue  trop  faible  ;  si  j'ecrivais  beaucoup  je  deviendrai  aveugle. 
Cette  faiblesse  de  vue  est  pour  moi  une  terrible  privation ; 
sans  cela,  savez-vous  ce  que  je  ferais,  Monsieur  ?  J'ecrirais 
un  livre  et  je  le  dediearais  a  mon  maitre  de  litterature,  au  seul 
maitre  que  j'aie  jamais  eu — a  vous,  Monsieur  !  Je  vous  ai  dit 
souvent  en  frangais  combien  je  vous  respecte,  combien  je  suis 
redevable  a  votre  bonte,  a  vos  conseils.  Je  voudrai  le  dire 
une  fois  en  Anglais.     Cela  ne  se  pent  pas  ;  il  ne  faut  pas  y 

penser.     La  carriere  des  lettres  m'est  fermee 

N'oubliez  pas  de  me  dire  comment  vous  vous  portez,  comment 
madame  et  les  enfants  se  portent  ?  Je  compte  bientot  avoir 
de  vos  nouvelles ;  cette  idee  me  souris,  car  le  souvenir  de  vos 
bontes  ne  s'effacera  jamais  de  ma  memoire,  et  tant  que  ce 
souvenir  durera  le  respect  que  vous  m'avez  inspire  durera 
aussi.     Agreez,  Monsieur,  &c." 

It  is  probable,  that  even  her  sisters  and  most  intmiate 
friends  did  not  know  of  this  dread  of  ultimate  blindness  which 
beset  her  at  this  period.  What  eyesight  she  had  to  spare  she 
reserved  for  the  use  of  her  father.  She  did  but  little  plain- 
sewing  ;  not  more  writing  than  could  be  avoided ;  and  em- 
ployed herself  principally  in  knitting. 

''April  2,  1845. 
*^  T  see  plainly  it  is  proved  to  us  that  there  is  scarcely  a 
draught  of  unmingled  happiness  to  be  had  in  this  world. 

's  illness  comes  with 's  marriage.     Mary  T.  finds 

herself  free,  and  on  that  path  to  adventure  and  exertion  tc 


women's  conduct  liable  to  misconstruction.   261 

wliich  slie  has  so  long  been  seeking  admission.  Sickness, 
hardship,  danger,  are  her  fellow  travellers — ^lier  inseparable 
companions.  She  may  have  been  out  of  the  reach  of  these 
S.W.  N.W.  gales,  before  they  began  to  blow,  or  they  may 
have  spent  their  fury  on  land,  and  not  ruffled  the  sea  much. 
If  it  has  been  otherwise,  she  has  been  sorely  tossed,  while  we 
have  been  sleeping  in  our  beds,  or  lying  awake  thinking  about 
her.  Yet  these  real,  material  dangers,  when  once  past,  leave 
in  the  mind  the  satisfaction  of  having  struggled  with  difficulty, 
and  overcome  it.  Strength,  courage,  and  experience  are  their 
invariable  results  ;  whereas,  I  doubt  whether  suffering  purely 
mental  has  any  good  result,  unless  it  be  to  make  us  by  com- 
parison less  sensitive  to  physical  suffering Ten 

years  ago,  I  should  have  laughed  at  your  account  of  the  blun- 
der you  made  in  mistaking  the  bachelor  doctor  for  a  married 
man.  I  should  have  certainly  thought  you  scrupulous  over- 
much, and  wondered  how  you  could  possibly  regret  being  civil 
to  a  decent  individual,  merely  because  he  happened  to  be  sin- 
gle instead  of  double.  Now,  however,  I  can  perceive  that 
your  scruples  are  founded  on  common  sense.  I  know  that  if 
women  wish  to  escape  the  stigma  of  husband-seeking,  they 
must  act  and  look  like  marble  or  clay — cold,  expressionless, 
bloodless ;  for  every  appearance  of  feeling,  of  joy,  sorrow, 
friendliness,  antipathy,  admiration,  disgust,  are  alike  con- 
strued by  the  world  into  the  attempt  to  hook  a  husband. 
Never  mind !  well-meaning  women  have  their  own  consciences 
to  comfort  them  after  all.  Do  not,  therefore,  be  too  much 
afraid  of  showing  yourself  as  you  are,  affectionate  and  good- 
hearted  ;  do  not  too  harshly  repress  sentiments  and  feelings 
excellent  in  themselves,  because  you  fear  that  some  puppy 
may  fancy  that  you  are  letting  them  come  out  to  fascinate 
him ;  do  not  condemn  yourself  to  live  only  by  halves,  because 
if  you  showed  too  much  animation  some  pragmatical  thing  in 
breeches  might  take  it  into  his  pate  to  imagine  that  you  de- 


262  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

signed  to  dedicate  your  life  to  inanity.  Still,  a  composed 
decent,  equable  deportment  is  a  capital  treasure  to  a  womaUj 
and  that  you  possess-  Write  again  soon,  for  I  feel  rather 
fierce,  and  want  stroking  down." 

"  Jum  13,  1845. 
**  As  to  the  Mrs. ,  whoj  you  say,  is  like  me,  I  some- 
how feel  no  leaning  to  her  at  all.  I  never  do  to  people  who 
are  said  to  be  like  me,  because  I  have  always  a  notion  that 
they  are  only  like  me  in  the  disagreeable,  outside,  first-ac- 
quaintance part  of  my  character ;  in  those  points  which  are 
obvious  to  the  ordinary  run  of  people,  and  which  I  know  are 
not  pleasing.  You  say  she  is  ^  clever  ' — '  a  clever  person.' 
How  I  dislike  the  term !     It  means  rather  a  shrewd,  very 

ugly,  meddling,  talking  woman I  feel 

reluctant  to  leave  papa  for  a  single  day.  His  sight  dimin- 
ishes weekly  ;  and  can  it  be  wondered  at  that,  as  he  sees  the 
most  precious  of  his  faculties  leaving  him,  his  spirits  some- 
times sink  ?  It  is  so  hard  to  feel  that  his  few  and  scanty 
pleasures  must  all  soon  go.  He  has  now  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty in  either  reading  or  writing ;  and  then  he  dreads  the 
state  of  dependence  to  which  blindness  will  inevitably  reduce 
him.  He  fears  that  he  will  be  nothing  in  his  parish.  I  try 
to  cheer  him  sometimes  I  succeed  temporarily,  but  no  con- 
solation can  restore  his  sight,  or  atone  for  the  want  of  it. 
Still  he  is  never  peevish,  never  impatient ;  only  anxious  and 
dejected." 

For  the  reason  just  given,  Charlotte  declined  an  invita- 
tion to  the  only  house  to  which  she  was  now  ever  asked  to 
come.  In  answer  to  her  correspondent's  reply  to  this  letter, 
she  says  : — 

"  You  thought  1  refused  you  coldly,  did  you  ?  It  was  a 
queer  sort  of  coldness,  when  I  would  have  given  my  ears  to 


HEK   OPINION   OF   CUKATES.  263 

say  Yes,  and  was  obliged  to  say  No.  Matters,  however,  are 
now  a  little  changed.  Anne  is  come  home,  and  her  presence 
certainly  makes  me  feel  more  at  liberty.  Then,  if  all  be  well^ 
I  will  come  and  see  you.  Tell  me  only  when  I  must  come. 
Mention  the  week  and  the  day.  Have  the  kindness  also  to 
answer  the  following  queries,  if  you  can.  How  far  is  it  from 
Leeds  to  Sheffield  ?  Can  you  give  me  a  notion  of  the  cost  ? 
Of  course,  when  I  come,  you  will  let  me  enjoy  your  own  com- 
pany in  peace,  and  not  drag  me  out  a-visiting.  I  have  no 
desire  at  all  to  see  your  curate.  I  think  he  must  be  like  all 
the  other  curates  I  have  seen ;  and  they  seem  to  be  a  self- 
seeking,  vain,  empty  race.  At  this  blessed  moment,  we  have 
no  less  than  three  of  them  in  Haworth  parish — and  there  is 
not  one  to  mend  another.-  The  other  day,  they  all  three, 
accompanied  by  Mr.  S.,  dropped,  or  rather  rushed,  in  unex- 
pectedly to  tea.  It  was  Monday  (baking-day),  and  I  was  hot 
and  tired  ;  still,  if  they  had  behaved  quietly  and  decently,  I 
would  have  served  them  out  their  tea  in  peace ;  but  they  be- 
gan glorifying  themselves,  and  abusing  Dissenters  in  such  a 
manner,  that  my  temper  lost  its  balance,  and  I  pronounced  a 
few  sentences  sharply  and  rapidly,  which  struck  them  all 
dumb.  Papa  was  greatly  horrified  also,  but  I  don't  regret 
it." 

On  her  return  from  this  short  visit  to  her  friend,  she 
travelled  with  a  gentleman  in  the  railway  carriage,  whose 
features  and  bearing  betrayed  him,  in  a  moment,  to  be  a 
Frenchman.  She  ventured  to  ask  him  if  such  was  not  the 
case  ;  and,  on  his  admitting  it,  she  further  inquired  if  he  had 
not  passed  a  considerable  time  in  Germany,  and  was  answered 
that  he  had ;  her  quick  ear  detected  something  of  the  thick 
guttural  pronunciation,  which.  Frenchmen  say,  they  are  able 
to  discover  even  in  the  grandchildren  of  their  countrymen 
who  have  lived  any  time  beyond  the  Rhine.     Charlotte  had 


264  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

retained  her  skill  in  the  language  by  the  habit  of  which  she 
thus  speaks  to  M.  Heger  : — 

"  Je  crains  beaucoup  d'oublier  le  frangais — ^j'  apprends 
tons  les  jours  une  demi  page  de  frangais  par  coeur,  et  j'ai 
grand  plaisir  a  apprendre  cette  lecon.  Veuillez  presenter  a 
Madame  I'assurance  de  mon  estime ;  je  crains  que  Marie 
Louise  et  Claire  ne  m'aient  doja  oubliee  ;  mais  je  vous  rever- 
rai  un  jour ;  aussitot  que  j'aurais  gagne  assez  d'argent  pour 
aller  a  Bruxelles,  j'y  irai." 

And  so  her  journey  back  to  Haworth,  after  the  rare 
pleasure  of  this  visit  to  her  friend,  was  pleasantly  beguiled 
by  conversation  with  the  French  gentleman ;  and  she  arrived 
at  home  refreshed  and  happy.     What  to  find  there  ? 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  she  reached  the  parsonage. 
Branwell  was  there,  unexpectedly,  very  ill.  He  had  come 
home  a  day  or  two  before,  apparently  for  a  holiday ;  in  real- 
ity, I  imagine,  because  some  discovery  had  been  made  which 
rendered  his  absence  imperatively  desirable.     The  day  of 

Charlotte's  return,  he  had  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  < , 

sternly  dismissing  him,  intimating  that  his  proceedings  were 
discovered,  characterizing  them  as  bad  beyond  expression, 
and  charging  him,  on  pain  of  exposure,  to  break  off  imme- 
diately, and  for  ever,  all  communication  with  every  member 
of  the  family. 

All  the  disgraceful  details  came  out.  Branwell  was  in 
no  state  to  conceal  his  agony  of  remorse,  or,  strange  to  say, 
his  agony  of  guilty  love,  from  any  dread  of  shame.  He  gave 
passionate  way  to  his  feelings ;  he  shocked  and  distressed 
those  loving  sisters  inexpressibly;  the  blind  father  sat 
stunned,  sorely  tempted  to  curse  the  profligate  woman,  w^ho 
had  tempted  his  boy — his  only  son — into  the  deep  disgrace 
of  deadly  crime. 


SISTEELY   ANXIETIES.  265 

All  the  variations  of  spirits  and  of  temper — the  reckless 
gaiety,  the  moping  gloom  of  many  months,  were  now  ex- 
plained. There  was  a  reason  deeper  than  any  mere  indul- 
gence of  appetite,  to  account  for  his  intemperance ;  he  began 
his  career  as  an  habitual  drunkard  to  drown  remorse. 

The  pitiable  part,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  was  the 
yearning  love  he  still  bore  to  the  woman  who  had  got  so 
strong  a  hold  upon  him.  It  is  true,  that  she  professed  equal 
love ;  we  shall  see  how  her  professions  held  good.  There 
was  a  strange  lingering  of  conscience,  when  meeting  her  clan- 
destinely by  appointment  at  Harrogate  some  months  after, 
he  refused  to  consent  to  the  elopement  which  she  proposed  ; 
there  was  some  good  left  in  this  corrupted,  weak  young  man, 
even  to  the  very  last  of  his  miserable  days.  The  case  pre- 
sents the  reverse  of  the  usual  features  ;  the  man  became  the 
victim ;  the  man  5  life  was  blighted,  and  crushed  out  of  him 
by  suffering,  and  guilt  entailed  by  guilt ;  the  man's  family 
were  stung  by  keenest  shame.  The  woman — to  think  of 
her  father's  pious  name — the  blood  of  honourable  families 
mixed  in  her  veins — ^her  early  home,  underneath  whose  roof- 
tree  sat  those  whose  names  are  held  saintlike  for  their  good 
deeds, — ^she  goes  flaunting  about  to  this  day  in  respectable 
society ;  a  showy  woman  for  her  age ;  kept  afloat  by  her  re- 
puted wealth.  I  see  her  name  in  county  papers,  as  one  of 
those  who  patronize  the  Christmas  balls ;  and  I  hear  of  her 
in  London  drawing-rooms.  Now  let  us  read,  not  merely  of 
the  suff'ering  of  her  guilty  accomplice,  but  of  the  misery  she 
caused  to  innocent  victims,  whose  premature  deaths  may,  in 
part,  be  laid  at  her  door. 

^'  We  have  had  sad  work  with  Branwell.  He  thought  of 
nothing  but  stunning  or  drowning  his  agony  of  mind.  No 
one  in  this  house  could  have  rest ;  and,  at  last,  we  have  been 
obliged  to  send  him  from  home  for  a  week,  with  some  one  to 

VOL.  I.— 12 


2G()  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

look  after  liim.  He  lias  written  to  me  this  morning,  ex» 
pressing  some  sense  of  contrition  •  .  .  .  but  as  long  as  lio 
remains  at  home,  I  scarce  dare  hope  for  peace  in  the  house. 
We  must  all,  I  fear,  prepare  for  a  season  of  distress  and  dis- 
quietude. When  I  left  you,  I  was  strongly  impressed  with 
the  feeling  that  I  was  going  back  to  sorrow.'' 

"  August,  1 845. 
"  Things  here  at  home  are  much  as  usual ;    not  very 
bright,  as  it  regards  Branwell,  though  his  health,  and  conse- 
quently his  temper,  have  been  somewhat  better  this  last  day 
or  two,  because  he  is  now  forced  to  abstain." 

''  August  ISth,  1845. 
"  I  have  delayed  writing,  because  I  have  no  good  news  to 
communicate.  My  hopes  ebb  low  indeed  about  Branwell. 
I  sometimes  fear  he  will  never  be  fit  for  much.  The  late 
blow  to  his  prospects  and  feelings  has  quite  made  Mm  reck- 
less. It  is  only  absolute  want  of  means  that  acts  as  any 
check  to  him.  One  ought,  indeed,  to  hope  to  the  very  last ; 
and  I  try  to  do  so,  but  occasionally  hope  in  his  case  seems  so 
fallacious.' 

"  Nov,  4th,  1845. 
^'  I  hoped  to  be  able  to  ask  you  to  come  to  Haworth.     It 
almost  seemed  as  if  Branwell  had  a  chance  of  getting  em- 
ployment, and  I  waited  to  know  the  result  of  his  efforts  in 

order  to  say,  dear ,  come  and  see  us.     But  the  place  (a 

secretaryship  to  a  railway  committee)  is  given  to  another 
person.  Branwell  still  remains  at  home ;  and  while  he  is 
here,  you  shall  not  come.  I  am  more  confirmed  in  that  reso- 
lution the  more  I  see  of  him.  I  wish  I  could  say  one  word 
to  you  in  his  favour,  but  I  cannot.  I  will  hold  my  tongue. 
We  are  all  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind  suggestion  about 


CLOSE   OF   BRANWELL   BEONTe's   CAREER.  267 

Leeds ;  but  I  think  our  school  schemes  are  for  the  present, 
at  rest.  ' 

"D^c.  31,  1845. 

*^  You  say  well,  in  speaking  of ,  that  no  sufferings 

are  so  awful  as  those  brought  on  by  dissipation ;   alas  !  I  see 

the  truth  of  this  observation  daily  proved.     and *• 

must  have  as  weary  and  burdensome  a  life  of  it  in  waiting 
upon  their  unhappy  brother.  It  seems  grievous,  indeed,  that 
those  who  have  not  sinned  should  suffer  so  largely." 

Thus  ended  the  year  1845. 

I  may  as  well  complete  here  the  narrative  of  the  outward 
events  of  Branwell  Bronte's  life.  A  few  months  later  (I 
have  the  exact  date,  but,  for  obvious  reasons,  withhold  it) 
the  invalid  husband  of  the  woman  with  whom  he  had  in- 
trigued, died.  Branwell  had  been  looking  forward  to  this 
event  with  guilty  hope.  After  her  husband's  death,  his  para- 
mour would  be  free  ;  strange  as  it  seems,  the  young  man  still 
loved  her  passionately,  and  now  he  imagined  the  time  was 
come  when  they  might  look  forward  to  being  married,  and 
might  live  together  without  reproach  or  blame.  She  had 
offered  to  elope  with  him ;  she  had  written  to  him  perpetu- 
ally ;  she  had  sent  him  money — twenty  pounds  at  a  time ; 
he  remembered  the  criminal  advances  she  had  made ;  she 
had  braved  shame,  and  her  children's  menaced  disclosures, 
for  his  sake ;  he  thought  she  must  love  him ;  he  little  knew 
how  bad  a  depraved  woman  can  be.  Her  husband  had  made 
a  will,  in  which  what  property  he  left  to  her  was  bequeathed 
solely  on  the  condition  that  she  should  never  see  Branwell 
Bronte  again.  At  the  very  time  when  the  will  was  read, 
she  did  not  know  but  that  he  might  be  on  his  way  to  her, 
having  heard  of  her  husband's  death.  She  despatched  a 
servant  in  hot  haste  to  Haworth.     He  stopped  at  the  Black 


268  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

Bull,  and  a  messenger  was  sent  up  to  the  parsonage  for  Bran 
well.  He  came  down  to  the  little  inn,  and  was  shut  up  with 
the  man  for  some  time.  Then  the  groom  came  out,  paid  hi? 
bill,  mounted  his  horse,  and  was  off.  Branwell  remained  in 
the  room  alone.  More  than  an  hour  elapsed  before  sign  or 
sound  was  heard  ;  then,  those  outside  heard  a  noise  like  the 
bleating  of  a  calf,  and,  on  opening  the  door,  he  was  found  in 
a  kind  of  fit,  succeeding  to  the  stupor  of  grief  which  he  had 
fallen  into  on  hearing  that  he  was  forbidden  by  his  paramour 
ever  to  see  her  again,  as,  if  he  did,  she  would  forfeit  her  for- 
tune. Let  her  live  and  flourish !  He  died,  his  pockets  filled 
with  her  letters,  which  he  had  carried  perpetually  about  his 
person,  in  order  that  he  might  read  them  as  often  as  he 
wished.  He  lies  dead ;  and  his  doom  is  only  known  to  God's 
mercy.  When  I  think  of  him,  I  change  my  cry  to  heaven. 
Let  her  live  and  repent !     That  same  mercy  is  infinite. 

For  the  last  three  years  of  Branwell's  life,  he  took  opium 
habitually,  by  way  of  stunning  conscience  :  he  drank,  more- 
over, whenever  he  could  get  the  opportunity.  The  reader 
may  say  that  I  have  mentioned  his  tendency  to  intemperance 
long  before.  It  is  true ;  but  it  did  not  become  habitual,  as 
far  as  I  can  learn,  until  after  the  commencement  of  his 
guilty  intimacy  with  the  woman  of  whom  I  have  been  speak- 
ing. If  I  am  mistaken  on  this  point,  her  taste  must  have 
been  as  depraved  as  her  principles.  He  took  opium,  because 
ifc  made  him  forget  for  a  time  more  effectually  than  drink ; 
and,  besides,  it  was  more  portable.  In  procuring  it  he 
showed  all  the  cunning  of  the  opium-eater.  He  would  steal 
out  while  the  family  were  at  church — to  which  he  had  pro- 
fessed himself  too  ill  to  go — and  manage  to  cajole  the  village 
druggist  out  of  a  lump  ;  or,  it  might  be,  the  carrier  had  un- 
suspiciously brought  him  some  in  a  packet  from  a  distance. 
For  some  time  before  his  death  he  had  attacks  of  delirium 
tremens  of  the  most  frightful  character ;  he  slept  in  his  fa- 


CLOSE   OF   BRANWELL   BRONTE's    CAREER.  2()9 

ther's  room,  and  he  would  sometimes  declare  that  either  he 
or  his  father  should  be  dead  before  morning.  The  trembling 
sisters,  sick  with  fright,  would  implore  their  father  not  to 
expose  himself  to  this  danger ;  but  Mr.  Bronte  is  no  timid 
man,  and  perhaps  he  felt  that  he  could  possibly  influence  his 
son  to  some  self-restraint,  more  by  showing  trust  in  him  than 
by  showing  fear.  The  sisters  often  listened  for  the  report 
of  a  pistol  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  till  watchful  eye  and 
hearkening  ear  grew  heavy  and  dull  with  the  perpetual  strain 
upon  their  nerves.  In  the  mornings  young  Bronte  would 
saunter  out,  saying,  with  a  drunkard's  incontinence  of  speech, 
"  The  poor  old  man  and  I  have  had  a  terrible  night  of  it ; 
he  does  his  best — the  poor  old  man  !  but  it's  all  over  with 
me  ;  "  (whimpeo^ing)  "  it's  her  fault,  her  fault."  All  that  is 
to  be  said  more  about  Branwell  Bronte,  shall  be  said  by 
Charlotte  herself^  not  by  me. 


270  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 


CHAPTEPt    XIV. 

In  tlie  course  of  this  sad  autumn  of  1S45,  a  new  interest 
came  up  ;  faint,  indeed,  and  often  lost  sight  of  in  the  vivid 
pain  and  constant  pressure  of  anxiety  respecting  their 
brother.  In  the  biographical  notice  of  her  sisters,  which 
Charlotte  prefixed  to  the  edition  of  "  Wuthering  Heights 
and  Agnes  Grey,"  published  in  1850 — a  piece  of  writiug 
unique,  as  far  as  I  know,  in  its  pathos  and  its  power — she 
Bays  :— 

"  One  day  in  the  autumn  of  1845,  I  accidentally  lighted 
on  a  MS.  volume  of  verse,  in  my  sister  Emily's  hand-writing. 
Of  course,  I  was  not  surprised,  knowing  that  she  could  and 
did  write  verse  :  I  looked  it  over,  and  something  more  than 
surprise  seized  me — a  deep  conviction  that  these  were  not 
common  effusions,  nor  at  all  like  the  poetry  women  generally 
write.  I  thought  them  condensed  and  terse,  vigorous  and 
genuine.  To  my  ear  they  had  also  a  peculiar  music,  wild^ 
melancholy,  and  elevating.  My  sister  Emily  was  not  a  per- 
son of  demonstrative  character,  nor  one,  on  the  recesses  of 
whose  mind  and  feelings,  even  those  nearest  and  dearest  to 
her  could,  with  impunity,  intrude  unlicensed  :  it  took  hours 
to  reconcile  her  to  the  discovery  I  had  made,  and  days  to 

persuade  her  that  such  poems  merited  publication 

Meantime,  my  younger  sister  quietly  produced  some  of  her 
nwn  compositions,  intimating  that  since   Emily's  had  given 


TRINTINa   THE   POEMS.  271 

me  pleasure,  I  might  like  to  look  at  hers.  I  could  not  but 
be  a  partial  judge,  yet  I  thought  that  these  verses  too  had  a 
sweet   sincere   pathos  of  their  own.     We   had   very   early 

cherished  the  dream  of  one  day  being  authors Wo 

agreed  to  arrange  a  small  selection  of  our  poems,  and,  if 
possible,  get  them  printed.  Averse  to  personal  publicityj 
we  veiled  our  own  names  under  those  of  Currer,  Ellis,  and 
Acton  Bell ;  the  ambiguous  choice  being  dictated  by  a  sort 
of  conscientious  scruple  at  assuming  Christian  names,  posi- 
tively masculine,  while  we  did  not  like  to  declare  ourselves 
women,  because — without  at  the  time  suspecting  that  our 
mode  of  writing  and  thinking  was  not  what  is  called  ^  femi- 
nine,'— we  had  a  vague  impression  that  authoresses  are  liable 
to  be  looked  on  with  prejudice ;  we  noticed  how  critics  some- 
times use  for  their  chastisement  the  weapon  of  personality, 
and  for  their  reward,  a  flattery,  which  is  not  true  praise. 
The  bringing  out  of  our  little  book  was  hard  work.  As  was 
to  be  expected,  neither  we  nor  our  poems  were  at  all  wanted ; 
but  for  this  we  had  been  prepared  at  the  outset ;  though 
inexperienced  ourselves,  we  had  read  the  experience  of 
others.  The  great  puzzle  lay  in  the  difficulty  of  getting 
answers  of  any  kind  from  the  publishers  to  whom  we  ap- 
plied. Eeing  greatly  harassed  by  this  obstacle,  I  ventured 
to  apply  to  the  Messrs.  Chambers,  of  Edinburgh,  for  a  word 
of  advice  ;  they  may  have  forgotten  the  circumstance,  but  1 
have  not,  for  from  them  I  received  a  brief  and  business-like, 
but  civil  and  sensible  reply,  on  which  we  acted,  and  at  last 
made  way." 

I  inquired  from  Mr.  Robert  Chambers,  and  found,  as 
Miss  Bronte  conjectured,  that  he  had  entirely  forgotten  the 
application  which  had  been  made  to  him  and  his  brother  for 
advice;  nor  had  they  any  copy  or  memorandum  of  tlie 
correspondence. 


272  LIFE.    OF    CIIAKLOTTE    BRONTE. 

There  is  an  intelligent  man  living  in  Hawortli,  who  has 
given  me  some  interesting  particulars  relating  to  the  sisters 
about  this  period.     He  says :  — 

*^  I  have  known  Miss  Eronto,  as  Miss  Bronte,  a  long 
time ;  indeed,  ever  since  they  came  to  Haworth  in  1819.  But 
I  had  not  much  acquaintance  with  the  family  till  about  1843, 
when  I  began  to  do  a  little  in  the  stationery  line.  Nothing 
of  that  kind  could  be  had  nearer  than  Keighley  before  I 
began.  They  used  to  buy  a  great  deal  of  writing  paper, 
and  I  used  to  wonder  whatever  they  did  with  so  much.  I 
sometimes  thought  they  contributed  to  the  Magazines. 
When  I  was  out  of  stock,  I  was  always  afraid  of  their 
coming :  they  seemed  so  distressed  about  it,  if  I  had  none. 
I  have  walked  to  Halifax  (a  distance  of  10  miles)  many  a 
time,  for  half  a  ream  of  paper,  for  fear  of  being  without  it 
when  they  came.  I  could  not  buy  more  at  a  time  for  want  of 
capital.  I  was  always  short  of  that.  I  did  so  like  them  to 
come  when  I  had  anything  for  them ;  they  were  so  much 
diiferent  to  anybody  else ;  so  gentle  and  kind,  and  so  very 
quiet.  They  never  talked  much.  Charlotte  sometimes  would 
sit  and  inquire  about  our  circumstances  so  kindly  and  feel- 
ingly ?  .  .  .  .  Though  I  am  a  poor  working  man  (which  I 
have  never  felt  to  be  any  degradation),  I  could  talk  with  her 
with  the  greatest  freedom.  I  always  felt  quite  at  home  with 
her.  Though  I  never  had  any  school  education,  I  never  felt 
the  want  of  it  in  her  company." 

The  publishers  to  whom  she  finally  made  a  successful  ap- 
plication for  the  production  of  "  Currer,  Ellis,  and  Acton 
BelPs  poems,"  were  Messrs.  Aylott  and  Jones,  Paternostor- 
row.  Mr.  Aylott  has  kindly  placed  the  letters  which  she 
f^rote  to  him  on  the  subject  at  my  disposal.  The  first  is 
dated  January  28th,  1846,  and  in  it  she  inquires  if  they  wiU 


INTENDED  TUBLICATION  OF  THE  POEMS.      273 

publish  one  volume  octavo  of  poems ;  if  not  at  their  own 
risk,  on  the  author's  account.  It  is  signed  "  C.  Bronte." 
They  must  have  replied  pretty  speedily,  for  on  January  31s^ 
she  writes  again  : — 

"  GeNTLEMEIi, 

"  Since  you  agree  to  undertake  the  publication  of 
the  work  respecting  which  I  applied  to  you,  I  should  wish 
now  to  know,  as  soon  as  possible,  the  cost  of  paper  and  print- 
ing. I  will  then  send  the  necessary  remittance,  together 
with  the  manuscript.  I  should  like  it  to  be  printed  in  one 
octavo  volume,  of  the  same  quality  of  paper  and  size  of  type 
as  Moxon's  last  edition  of  Wordsworth.  The  poems  will 
occupy,  I  should  think,  from  200  to  250  pages.  They  are 
not  the  production  of  a  clergyman,  nor  are  they  exclusively 
of  a  religious  character ;  but  I  presume  these  circumstances 
will  be  immaterial.  It  will,  perhaps,  be  necessary  that  you 
should  see  the  manuscript,  in  order  to  calculate  accurately 
the  expense  of  publication ;  in  that  case  I  will  send  it  im- 
mediately. I  should  like,  however,  previously,  to  have  some 
idea  of  the  probable  cost ;  and  if,  from  what  I  have  said, 
you  can  make  a  rough  calculation  on  the  subject,  I  should  be 
greatly  obliged  to  you." 

In  her  next  letter,  February  6th,  she  says  : — 

"  You  will  perceive  that  the  poems  are  the  work  of  three 
persons,  relatives — their  separate  pieces  are  distinguished  by 
their  respective  signatures." 

She  writes  again  on  February  15th;  and  on  the  16th. sho 
says  :— 

"  The  MS.  will  certainly  form  a  thinner  volume  than  1 

VOL.  1—12* 


274  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTl^E  BKONTE. 

had  anticipated.  I  cannot  name  another  model  which  1 
should  like  it  precisely  to  resemble,  yet,  I  tliink,  a  duodecimo 
form,  and  a  somewhat  reduced,  though  still  clear  type,  would 
be  preferable.  I  only  stipulate  for  clear  type,  not  too  small ; 
and  good  paper." 

On  February  21st  she  selects  the  ''  long  primer  type  " 
for  the  poems,  and  will  remit  31Z.  10s.  in  a  few  days. 

Minute  as  the  details  conveyed  in  these  notes  are,  they 
are  not  trivial,  because  they  afford  such  strong  indications  of 
character.  If  the  volume  was  to  be  published  at  their  own 
risk,  it  was  necessary  that  the  sister  conducting  the  negotia- 
tion should  make  herself  acquainted  with  the  different  kinds 
of  type,  and  the  various  sizes  of  books.  Accordingly  she 
bought  a  small  volume,  from  which  to  learn  all  she  could  on 
the  subject  of  preparation  for  the  press.  No  half-knowl- 
edge— no  trusting  to  other  people  for  decisions  which  she 
could  make  for  herself;  and  yet  a  generous  and  full  confi- 
dence, not  misplaced,  in  the  thorough  probity  of  Messrs. 
Aylott  and  Jones.  The  caution  in  ascertaining  the  risk  be- 
fore embarking  in  the  enterprise,  and  the  prompt  payment  of 
the  monsy  required,  even  before  it  could  be  said  to  have 
assumed  the  shape  of  a  debt,  were  both  parts  of  a  self-reliant 
and  independent  character.  Self-contained  also  was  she. 
During  the  whole  time  that  the  volume  of  poems  was  in  the 
course  of  preparation  and  publication,  no  word  was  written 
telling  anyone,  out  of  the  household  circle  what  was  in 
progress. 

I  have  had  some  of  the  letters  placed  in  my  hands,  which 
she  addressed  to  her  old  school-mistress.  Miss  Wooler.  They 
begin  a  little  before  this  time.  Acting  on  the  conviction, 
which  I  have  all  along  entertained,  that  where  Charlotte 
Bronte's  own  words  could  be  used,  no  others  ought  to  take 
their  place,  I  shall  make  extracts  from  this  series,  according 
to  their  dates. 


LETTER   TO   MISS   WOOLER.  275 

''January  mth,  1846. 

"  Mr  DEAR    Ml3S    WOOLER, 

"  I  have  not  yet  paid  my  visit  to ;  it  is,  in- 
deed, more  than  a  year  since  I  was  there,  but  I  frequently 
aear  from  E.,  and  she  did  not  fail  to  tell  me  that  you  were 
gone  into  Worcestershire ;  she  was  unable,  however,  to  give 
me  your  exact  address.  Had  I  known  it,  I  should  have 
written  to  you  long  since.  I  thought  you  would  wonder  how 
we  were  getting  on,  when  you  heard  of  the  railway  panic,  and 
you  may  be  sure  that  I  am  very  glad  to  be  able  to  answer 
your  kind  inquiries  by  an  assurance  that  our  small  capital  is 
as  yet  undiminished.  The  York  and  Midland  is,  as  you  say, 
a  very  good  line ;  yet,  I  confess  to  you,  I  should  wish,  for 
my  own  part,  to  be  wise  in  time.  I  cannot  think  that  even 
the  very  best  lines  will  continue  for  many  years  at  their 
present  premiums ;  and  I  have  been  most  anxious  for  us  to 
sell  our  shares  ere  it  be  too  late,  and  to  secure  the  proceeds 
in  some  safer,  if,  for  the  present,  less  profitable  investment. 
I  cannot,  however,  persuade  my  sisters  to  regard  the  affair 
precisely  from  my  point  of  view ;  and  I  feel  as  if  I  would 
rather  run  the  risk  of  loss  than  hurt  Emily's  feelings  by  act- 
ing in  direct  opposition  to  her  opinion.  She  managed  in  a 
most  handsome  and  able  manner  for  me,  when  I  was  in 
Brussels,  and  prevented  by  distance  from  looking  after  my 
own  interests  ;  therefore,  I  will  let  her  manage  sti-ll,  and  take 
the  consequences.  Disinterested  and  energetic  she  certainly 
is ;  and  if  she  be  not  quite  so  tractable  or  open  to  conviction 
as  I  could  wish,  I  must  remember  perfection  is  not  the  lot 
of  humanity ;  and  as  long  as  we  can  regard  those  we  love 
and  to  whom  we  are  closely  allied,  with  profound  and  never- 
shaken  esteem,  it  is  a  small  thing  that  they  should  vex  ua 
occasionally  by  what  appear  -to  us  unreasonable  aii-d  head- 
strong notions. 

'  You,  my  dear  Miss- Woo] er,  kno-w  full  as  well  as  I  do, 


276  LIFE   OF   CIIAHLOTTE   BRONTE. 

the  value  of  sisters'  affection  to  eacli  other ;  there  is  nothing 
like  it  in  this  world,  I  believe,  when  they  are  nearly  equal 
in  age,  and  similar  in  education,  tastes,  and  sentiments.  You 
ask  about  Jiranwell:  he  never  thinks  of  seeking  employ- 
ment, and  I  begin  to  fear  that  he  has  rendered  himself  in- 
capable of  filling  any  respectable  station  in  life ;  besides,  if 
money  were  at  his  disposal,  he  would  use  it  only  to  his  own 
injury ;  the  faculty  of  self-government  is,  I  fear,  almost  de- 
stroyed in  him.  You  ask  me  if  I  do  net  think  that  men 
are  strange  beings  ?  I  do,  indeed.  I  have  often  thought 
ro,  and  I  think,  too,  that  the  mode  of  bringing  them  up  is 
fslrange  :  they  are  not  sufficiently  guarded  from  temptation. 
Girls  are  protected  as  if  they  were  something  very  frail  or 
allly  indeed,  while  boys  are  turned  loose  on  the  world,  as  if 
they,  of  all  beings  in  existence,  were  the  wisest  and  least 
liable  to  be  led  astray.  I  am  glad  you  like  Bromsgrove, 
though,  I  dare  say,  there  are  few  places  you  would  not  like, 
with  Mrs.  M.  for  a  companion.  I  always  feel  a  peculiar 
satisfaction  when  I  hear  of  your  enjoying  yourself,  because 
it  proves  that  there  really  is  such  a  thing  as  retributive  jus- 
tice even  in  this  world.  You  worked  hard;  you  denied 
yourself  all  pleasure,  almost  all  relaxation,  in  your  youth, 
and  in  the  prime  of  life ;  now  you  are  free,  and  that  while 
you  have  still,  I  hope,  many  years  of  vigour  and  health  in 
which  you  can  enjoy  freedom.  Besides,  I  have  another  and 
very  egotistical  motive  for  being  pleased :  it  seems  that  even 
'  a  lone  woman '  can  be  happy,  as  well  as  cherished  wives 
and  proud  mothers.  I  am  glad  of  that.  I  speculate  much 
on  the  existence  of  unmarried  and  never-to-be-married  v/o- 
men  now-a-days ;  and  I  have  already  got  to  the  point  of 
considering  that  there  is  no  more  respectable  character  on 
this  earth  than  an  unmarried  .woman,  who  makes  her  own 
way  through  life  quietly,  perseveringly,  without  support  of 
husband  or  brother;  and^ who,  having  attained  the  age  of 


THE    SECKET   OF   AUTHOIiSHIP   DISCOVERED.  277 

tbrtj-live  or  upwards,  retains  in  lier  possession  a  well-regu- 
lated mind,  a  disposition  to  enjoy  simple  pleasures,  and  for- 
titude to  support  inevitable  pains,  sympathy  with  the  suffer- 
ings of  others,  and  willingness  to  relieve  want  as  far  as  hei 
menus  extend." 

During  the  time  that  the  negotiation  with  Messrs.  Ay- 
.ott  and  Co.  was  going  on,  Charlotte  went  ^^o  visit  her  old 
Bchool-friend,  with  whom  she  was  in  such  habits  of  confiden- 
tial intimacy ;  but,  neither  then  nor  afterwards,  did  she  ever 
speak  to  her  of  the  publication  of  the  poems ;  nevertheless, 
this  young  lady  suspected  that  the  sisters  wrote  for  maga- 
zines ;  and  in  this  idea  she  was  confirmed  when,  on  one  of 
her  visits  to  Haworth,  she  saw  Anne  with  a  number  of 
^^  Chambers's  Journal,"  and  a  gentle  smile  of  pleasure  steal- 
ing over  her  placid  face  as  she  read. 

"  AVhat  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  the  friend.  "  Why  do 
you  smile  ?  " 

"  Only  because  I  see  they  have  inserted  one  of  my 
poems,"  was  the  quiet  reply ;  and  not  a  word  more  was  said 
on  the  subject. 

To  this  friend  Charlotte  addressed  the  following  let* 
ters : — 

'' March  S,  184G. 
"  I  reached  home  a  little  after  two  o'clock,  all  safe  and 
right  yesterday ;  I  found  papa  very  well ;  his  sight  much 
the  same.  Emily  and  Anne  were  gone  to  Keighley  to  meet 
me ;  unfortunately,  I  had  returned  by  the  old  road,  while 
they  were  gone  by  the  new,  and  we  missed  each  other.  They 
did  not  get  home  till  half-past  four,  and  were  caught  in  the 
heavy  shower  of  rain  which  fell  in  the  afternoon.  I  am 
sorry  to  say  Anne  has  taken  a  little  cold  in  consequence,  but 
I  hope  she  will  soon  be  well.     Papa  was  much  cheered  by 


278  LIFE    OF   CIIAKLOTTE   EKONTE. 

my  report  of  Mr.  C.'s  opinion,  and  of  old  Mrs.  E.'s  expo 
rience ;  but  I  could  perceive  he  caught  gladly  at  the  idea 
of  deferring  the  operation  a  few  months  longer.  I  went 
into  the  room  where  Branwell  was,  to  speak  to  him,  about 
an  hour  after  I  got  home  ;  it  was  very  forced  work  to  address 
him.  I  might  have  spared  myself  the  trouble,  as  he  took 
no  notice,  and  made  no  reply ;  he  was  stupefied.  My  fears 
were  not  vain.  I  hear  that  he  got  a  sovereign  while  I  have 
been  away,  under  pretence  of  paying  a  pressmg  debt ;  he 
went  immediately  and  changed  it  at  a  public-house,  and  has 
employed  it  as  was  to  be  expected.  concluded  her  ac- 
count by  saying  he  was  a  '  hopeless  being ; '  it  is  too  true. 
In  his  present  state  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  stay  in  the 
room  where  he  is.  What  the  future  has  in  store  I  do  not 
know." 

''March,  31,  184G. 
"'  Our  poor  old  servant  Tabby  had  a  sort  of  fit,  a  fort- 
night since,  but  is  nearly  recovered  now.  Martha "  (the 
girl  they  had  to  assist  poor  old  Tabby,  and  who  remains  still 
the  faithful  servant  at  the  parsonage)  ^'  is  ill  with  a  swelling 
in  her  knee^  and  obliged  to  go  home.  I  fear  it  will  be  long 
before  she  is  in  working  condition  again.     I   received  the 

number  of  the  Becord  you  sent I  read  D'Aubigne's 

letter.  It  is  clever,  and  in  what  he  says  about  Catholicism 
very  good.  The  Evangelical  Alliance  part  is  not  very  prac- 
ticable, yet  certainly  it  is  more  in  accordance  with  the  spirit 
of  the  Gospel  to  preach  unity  among  Christians  than  to  in- 
culcate mutual  intolerance  and  hatred.  I  am  very  glad  I 
went  to when  I  did,  for  the  changed  weather  has  some- 
what changed  my  health  and  strength  since.  How  do  you 
get  on  ?  I  long  for  mild  south  and  west  winds.  I  am 
thankful  papa  continues  pretty  well,  though  often  made  very 
miserable  by  Branwell's  wretched  conduct.  There — there  ia 
no  chann-e  but  for  the  v,^orse." 


FIRST    STEP    TO    PUBEISHING   FICTIONS.  279 

Meanwhile  the  printing  of  the  volume  of  poems  was  quietly 
proceediug.  After  some  consultation  and  deliberation  the 
sisters  had  determined  to  correct  the  proofs  themselves.  Up 
to  March  28th  the  publishers  had  addressed  their  correspond- 
ent as  C.  Bronte,  Esq.,  but  at  this  time  some  "little  mistake 
occurred,"  and  she  desired  Messrs.  Aylott  and  Co.  in  future 
to  direct  to  her  real  address,  "  Miss  Bronte,"  &c.  But  she 
had  evidently  left  it  to  be  implied  that  she  was  not  acting  on 
her  own  behalf,  but  as  agent  for  the  real  authors,  as  in  a  note, 
dated  April  6,  she  makes  a  proposal  on  behalf  of  '^  C.  E.  and 
A.  Bell,"  which  is  to  the  following  effect,  that  they  are  pre- 
pariDg  for  the  press  a  work  of  fiction,  consisting  of  three  distinct 
and  unconnected  tales,  which  may  be  published  either  together 
as  a  work  of  three  volumes,  of  the  ordinary  novel  size,  or  sep- 
arately, as  single  volumes,  as  may  be  deemed  most  advisable. 
She  states  in  addition,  that  it  is  not  their  intention  to  publish 
these  tales  on  their  own  account ;  but  that  the  authors  direct 
her  to  ask  Messrs.  Aylott  and  Co.  whether  they  would  bo 
disposed  to  undertake  the  work,  after  having,  of  course,  by  due 
inspection  of  the  MS.,  ascertained  that  its  contents  are  such 
as  to  warrant  an  expectation  of  success.  To  this  letter  of  in- 
quiry the  publishers  replied  speedily,  and  the  tenor  of  their 
answer  may  be  gathered  from  Charlotte's,  dated  April  11th. 

"  I  beg  to  thank  you,  in  the  name  of  C,  E.  and  A.  Bell 
for  your  obliging  offer  of  advice.  I  will  avail  myself  of  it,  to 
request  information  on  two  or  three  points.  It  is  evident 
that  unknown  authors  have  great  difficulties  to  contend  with, 
before  they  can  succeed  in  bringing  their  works  before  the 
public.  Can  you  give  me  any  hint  as  to  the  way  in  which 
these  difficulties  are  best  met  ?  For  instance,  in  the  present 
case,  where  a  work  of  fiction  is  in  question,  in  what  form 
would  a  publisher  be  most  likely  to  accept  the  MS.? 
Whether  offered  as  a  work  of  three  vols.,  or  as  tales  which 


280  LIFE   OF   CIIAELOTTE   EFwONTE. 

might  be  published  in  numbers,  or  as  contributions  to  a  pe- 
riodical ? 

"  What  publishers  would  be  most  likely  to  receive  favour- 
ably  a  proposal  of  this  nature  ? 

^^  Would  it  suffice  to  write  to  a  publisher  on  the  subject, 
or  would  it  be  necessary  to  have  recourse  to  a  personal  inter- 
view ? 

"  Your  opinion  and  advice  on  these  three  points,  or  on 
any  other  which  your  experience  may  suggest  as  important, 
would  be  esteemed  by  us  as  a  favour." 

It  is  evident  from  the  whole  tenor  of  this  correspondence, 
that  the  truthfulness  and  probity  of  the  firm  of  publishers 
with  whom  she  had  to  deal  in  this  her  first  literary  venture, 
was  strongly  impressed  upon  her  mind,  and  was  followed  by 
the  inevitable  consequence  of  reliance  on  their  suggestions. 
And  the  progress  of  the  poems  was  not  unreasonably  lengthy 
or  long  drawn  out.  On  April  20th  she  writes  to  desire  that 
three  copies  may  be  sent  to  her,  and  that  Messrs.  Aylott  will 
advise  her  as  to  the  reviewers  to  whom  copies  ought  to  bo 
sent. 

I  give  the  next  letter  as  illustrating  the  ideas  of  these 
girls  as  to  what  periodical  reviews  or  notices  led  public 
opinion. 

"  The  poems  to  be  neatly  done  up  m  cloth.  Have  the 
goodness  to  send  copies  and  advertisements,  as  earl?/  as  pos' 
sible,  to  each  of  the  undermentioned  periodicals. 

"  ^  Colburn's  New  Monthly  Magazine.' 

"  *  Bentley's  Magazine.' 

"  ^  Hood's  Magazine.' 

"  *  Jerrold's  Shilling  Magazine.' 

*' '  Blackwood's  Magazine.' 

«  '  The  Edinburgh  Heview.' 


PUBLICATION   OF   THE   TOEMS.  281 

"  *  Tail's  Edinburgli  Magazine.' 

"  *  The  Dublin  University  Magazine.' 

"  Also  to  the  ^  Daily  News  '  and  to  the  '  Britannia '  news- 
papers. 

"  If  there  are  any  other  periodicals  to  which  you  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  sending  copies  of  works,  '!et  them  be 
supplied  also  with  copies.  I  think  those  I  have  mentioned 
will  suffice  for  advertising." 

In  compliance  with  this  latter  request,  Messrs.  Aylotfc 
suggest  that  copies  and  advertisements  of  the  work  should 
be  sent  to  the  "  Athenasum,"  ^^  Literary  Gazette,"  "  Critic," 
and  ^'  Times;  "  but  in  her  reply  Miss  Bronte  says,  that  she 
thinks  the  periodicals  she  first  mentioned  will  be  sufficient 
for  advertising  in  at  present,  as  the  authors  do  not  wish  to 
lay  out  a  larger  sum  than  two  pounds  in  advertising,  esteem- 
ing the  success  of  a  work  dependent  more  on  the  notice  it 
receives  from  periodicals  than  on  the  quantity  of  advertise- 
ments. In  case  of  any  notice  of  the  poems  appearing, 
whether  favourable  or  otherwise,  Messrs.  Aylott  and  Co.  are 
requested  to  send  her  the  name  and  number  of  those  period- 
icals in  which  such  notices  appear,  as  otherwise,  since  she 
has  not  the  opportunity  of  seeing  periodicals  regularly,  she 
may  miss  reading  the  critique.  "  Should  the  poems  be  re- 
marked upon  favourably,  it  is  my  intention  to  appropriate  a 
further  sum  for  advertisements.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  they 
should  pass  unnoticed  or  be  condemned,  I  consider  it  would 
be  quite  useless  to  advertise,  as  there  is  nothing  either  in 
the  title  of  the  work,  or  the  names  of  the  authors,  to  attract 
attention  from  a  single  individual." 

I  suppose  the  little  volume  of  poems  was  published  some- 
time about  the  end  of  May,  1846.  It  stole  into  life ;  some 
weeks  passed  over,  without  the  mighty  murmuring  public 
discovering  that  three  more  voices  were  uttering  their  speech 


282  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

And,  meanwhile,  the  course  of  existence  moved  drearily 
along  from  day  to  day  with  the  anxious  sisters,  who  must 
have  forgotten  their  sense  of  authorship  in  the  vital  care 
gnawing  at  their  hearts.     On  June  17,  Charlotte  writes  :-— 

"  Branwell  declares  that  he  neither  can  nor  will  do  any 
thing  for  himself;  good  situations  have  been  offered  him, 
for  which,  by  a  fortnight's  work,  he  might  have  qualified 
himself,  but  he  will  do  nothing,  except  drink  and  make  us 
all  wretched.'' 

In  the  Athenceum  of  July  4th,  under  the  head  of  poetry 
for  the  million,  came  a  short  review  of  the  poems  of  C,  E. 
and  A.  Bell.  The  reviewer  assigns  to  Ellis  the  highest  rank 
of  the  three  ^'  brothers,"  as  he  supposes  them  to  be  ;  he  calls 
Ellis  "  a  fine,  quaint  spirit ; "  and  speaks  of  "  an  evident 
power  of  wing  that  may  reach  heights  not  here  attempted." 
Again,  with  some  degree  of  penetration,  the  reviewer  says, 
that  the  poems  of  Ellis  "  convey  an  impression  of  originality 
beyond  what  his  contributions  to  these  volumes  embody." 
Currer  Bell  is  placed  midway  between  Ellis  and  Acton. 
But  there  is  little  in  the  review  to  ctrain  out,  at  this  distance 
of  time,  as  worth  preserving.  Still,  we  can  fancy  with  what 
interest  it  was  read  at  Haworth  Parsonage,  and  how  the 
sisters  would  endeavour  to  find  out  reasons  for  opioions,  or 
hints  for  the  future  guidance  of  their  talents. 

I  call  particular  attention  to  the  following  letter  of  Char* 
lotto's,  dated  July  10th,  1846.  To  whom  it  was  written, 
matters  not ;  but  the  wholesome  sense  of  duty  in  it — the 
eense  of  the  supremacy  of  that  duty  which  God,  in  placing 
us  in  families,  has  laid  out  for  us,  seems  to  deserve  especial 
fegard  in  these  days. 

^^  I  see  you  are  in  a  dilemma,  and  one  of  a  peculiar  ^aJ 


ADYICE   TO    A   YOUNG   FRIEND.  283 

difficult  nature.  Two  paths  lie  before  you ;  you  conscien- 
tiously wish  to  choose  the  right  one,  even  though  it  be  the 
most  steep,  straight,  and  rugged  ;  but  you  do  not  know 
which  is  the  right  one  ;  you  cannot  decide  whether  duty  and 
religion  command  you  to  go  out  into  the  cold  and  friendless 
world,  and  there  to  earn  your  living  by  governess  drudgery, 
or  whether  they  enjoin  your  continued  stay  with  your  aged 
mother,  neglecting,  for  the  presentj  every  prospect  of  inde- 
pendency for  yourself,  and  putting  up  with  daily  inconve- 
nience, sometimes  even  with  privations.  I  can  well  imagine, 
that  it  is  next  to  impossible  for  you  to  decide  for  yourself  in 
this  matter,  so  I  will  decide  it  for  you.  At  least,  I  will  tell 
you  what  is  my  earnest  conviction  on  the  subject ;  I  will 
show  you  candidly  how  the  question  strikes  me.  The  right 
path  is  that  which  necessitates  the  greatest  sacrifice  of  self- 
interest — which  implies  the  greatest  good  to  others;  and 
this* path,  steadily  followed,  will  lead,  I  believe,  in  time,  to 
prosperity  and  to  nappiness  ;  though  it  may  seem,  at  the 
outset,  to  tend  quite  in  a  contrary  direction.  Your  mother 
is  both  old  and  infirm  ;  old  and  infirm  people  have  but  few 
sources  of  happiness — fewer  almost  than  the  comparatively 
young  and  healthy  can  conceive ;  to  deprive  them  of  one  of 
these  is  cruel.  If  your  mother  is  more  composed  when  you 
are  with  her,  stay  with  her.  If  she  would  be  unhappy  in 
case  you  left  her,  stay  with  her.  It  will  not  apparently,  as 
far  as  short-sighted  humanity  can  see,  be  for  your  advantage 

to  remain  at ,  nor  will  you  be  praised  and  admired  for 

remaining  at  home  to  comfort  your  mother ;  yet,  probably, 
your  own  conscience  will  approve,  and  if  it  does,  stay  with 
her.  I  recommend  you  to  do  what  I  am  trying  to  do  my- 
self" 

The  remainder  of  this  letter  is  only  interesting  to  the 
reader  as  it  conveys  a  peremptory  disclaimer  of  the  report 


284:  LIFE  OF  CHAKLOTTE  BKONTE. 

that  the  writer  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  her  father's 
curate — the  very  same  gentleman  to  whom,  eight  years  after- 
wards, she  was  united ;  and  who,  probably,  even  now,  al- 
though she  was  unconscious  of  the  fact,  had  begun  his  service 
to  her,  in  the  same  tender  and  faithful  spirit  as  that  in  which 
Jacob  served  for  Rachel.  Others  may  have  noticed  this, 
though  she  did  not. 

A  few  more  notes  remain  of  her  correspondence  "  on  be- 
half of  the  Messrs.  Bell "  with  Mr.  Aylott.  On  July  15tli 
she  says,  "  I  suppose,  as  you  have  not  written,  no  other 
notices  have  yet  appeared,  nor  has  the  demand  for  the  work 
increased.  Will  you  favour  me  with  a  line  stating  whether 
any  J  or  how  many  copies  have  yet  been  sold  ?  " 

But  few,  I  fear ;  for,  three  days  later,  she  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing : — 

*^  The  Messrs.  Bell  desire  me  to  thank  you  for  your  sug- 
gestion respecting  the  advertisements.  They  agree  with 
you  that,  since  the  season  is  unfavourable,  advertising  had 
better  be  deferred.  They  are  obliged  to  you  for  the  infor- 
mation respecting  the  number  of  copies  sold." 

On  July  23rd  she  writes  to  the  Messrs.  Aylott : — • 

"  The  Messrs.  Bell  would  be  obliged  to  you  to  post  the 
enclosed  note  in  London.  It  is  an  answer  to  the  letter  you 
forwarded,  which  contained  an  application  for  their  auto- 
graphs from  a  person  who  professed  to  have  read  and  ad- 
mired their  poems.  I  think  I  before  intimated,  that  the 
Messrs.  Bell  are  desirous  for  the  present  of  remaining  un- 
known, for  which  reason  they  prefer  having  the  note  posted 
in  London  to  sending  it  direct,  in  order  to  avoid  giving  any 
clue  to  residence  or  identity  by  post-mark,  &c." 

Once  more,  in  September,  she  writes,  "  As  the  work  has 


AN   UNSWEKYIJSTG   CONVICTION.  285 

received  no  further  notice  from  any  periodical,  I   presume 
the  demand  for  it  has  not  greatly  increased." 

In  the  biographical  notice  of  her  sisters,  she  thus  speaks 
of  the  failure  of  the  modest  hopes  vested  in  this  p\iblication. 
"  The  book  was  printed  ;  it  is  scarcely  known,  and  all  of  it 
that  merits  to  be  known  are  the  poems  of  Ellis  Bell.  The 
fixed  conviction  I  held,  and  hold,  of  the  worth  of  these 
poems,  has  not,  indeed,  received  the  confirmation  of  much  fa- 
vourable criticism  ;  but  I  must  retain  it  notwithstanding.'* 


END   OF  VOL.  I. 


THE    LIFE 


O  F 


CHARLOTTE    BRONTE. 


ATTTIIOR   OF 


"JANE  EYRE;»  "SHIRLEY,"  "VILLETTE,"  &c. 


BY 

E.    C.    GASKELL, 

AUTHOR     OF      **MARY     B  A  TIT  O  N  ,  "    *  ^  R  U  T  II  ,  '  *     ETO. 


'  Oh  my  God, 
-  Thou  hast  knowledge,  only  Theu, 


How  dreary  'tis  for  women  to  sit  still 

On  winter  nights  by  solitary  fires 

And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off." 

AuEOEA  Leiqu. 


VOL.  IT. 


NEW  YOEK: 
D.    APPLETON    AXD    COMPANY, 

C49    &    551    BROADWAY. 

1875. 


LIFE    OF    CHAELOTTE    BEONTE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

During  this  summer  of  1846,  while  her  literary  hopes  were 
tvaning,  an  anxiety  of  another  kind  was  increasing.  Ilei 
father's  eyesight  had  become  seriously  impaired  by  the  pro- 
gress of  the  cataract  which  was  forming.  He  was  nearly 
blind.  He  could  grope  his  way  about,  and  recognise  the 
features  of  those  he  knew  well,  when  they  were  placed  against 
a  strong  light ,  but  he  could  no  longer  see  to  read ;  and  thus 
his  eager  appetite  for  knowledge  and  information  of  all  kinds 
was  severely  balked.  He  continued  to  preach.  I  have 
heard  that  he  was  led  up  into  the  pulpit,  and  that  his  ser^ 
mons  were  never  so  effective  as  when  he  stood  there^  a  grey 
sightless  old  man,  his  blind  eyes  looking  out  straight  before 
him,  while  the  words  that  came  from  his  lips  had  all  the 
vigour  and  force  of  his  best  days.  Another  fact  has  been 
mentioned  to  me,  curious  as  showing  the  accurateness  of 
his  sensation  of  time.  His  sermons  had  always  lasted  exactly 
half  an  hour.  "With  the  clock  right  before  him,  and  with  his 
ready  flow  of  words,  this  had  been  no  difficult  matter  as  long 
as  he  could  see.     But  it  was  the  same  when  he  was  blind ; 

VOL.    II. — 1 


3  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

as  til e  ininute-liand  came  to  the  point,  marking  the  expiration 
of  the  thirty  minutes,  he  concluded  his  sermon. 

Under  his  great  sorrow  he  was  always  patient.  As  iu 
times  of  far  greater  affliction,  he  enforced  a  quiet  endurance 
of  his  woe  upon  himself.  But  so  many  interests  were 
quenched  by  this  blindness  that  he  was  driven  inwards,  and 
must  have  dwelt  much  on  what  was  painful  and  distressing 
in  regard  to  his  only  son.  No  wonder  that  his  spirits  gave 
way,  and  were  depressed.  For  some  time  before  this  autumn 
his  daughters  had  been  collecting  all  the  information  they 
could  respecting  the  probable  success  of  operations  for  cata- 
ract performed  on  a  person  of  their  father's  age.  About  the 
end  of  July,  Emily  and  Charlotte  had  made  a  journey  to 
Manchester  for  the  purpose  of  searching  out  an  operator; 
and  there  they  heard  of  the  fame  of  the  late  Mr.  Wilson  as 
an  oculist.  They  went  to  him  at  once,  but  he  could  not 
tell,  from  description,  whether  the  eyes  were  ready  for  being 
operated  upon  or  not.  It  therefore  became  necessary  for 
Mr.  Bronte  to  visit  him;  and  towards  the  end  of  August, 
Charlotte  brought  her  father  to  him.  He  determined  at 
once  to  undertake  the  operation,  and  recommended  them  to 
comfortable  lodgings,  kept  by  an  old  servant  of  his.  These 
were  in  one  of  numerous  similar  streets  of  small  monoto- 
nous-looking houses,  in  a  suburb  of  the  town.  From  thence 
the  following  letter  is  dated,  on  August  21st,  1846  : — 

"  I  just  scribble  a  line  to  you  to  let  you  know  where  I 
am,  in  order  that  you  may  write  to  me  here,  for  it  seems  to 
me  that  a  letter  from  you  would  relieve  me  from  the  feel- 
ing of  strangeness  I  have  in  this  big  town.  Papa  and  I 
came  here  on  Wednesday ;  we  saw  Mr.  Wilson,  the  oculist, 
the  same  day ;  he  pronounced  papa's  eyes  quite  readj 
for  an  operation,  and  has  fixed  next  Monday  for  the  perform- 
ance of  it.     Think  of  us  on  that  day  !     We  got  into  our 


MR.    BKONTE  S   BLINDNESS.  3 

lodgings  yesterday.  I  think  we  shall  be  comfortable  .  at 
least  our  rooms  are  very  good,  but  there  is  no  mistress  of  the 
house  (she  is  very  ill,  and  gone  out  into  the  country),  and  T 
am  somewhat  puzzled  in  managing  about  provisions :  we 
board  ourselves.  I  find  myself  excessively  ignorant.  I  can't 
tell  what  to  order  in  the  way  of  meat.  For  ourselves  I  could 
contrive,  papa's  diet  is  so  very  simple  ;  but  there  will  be  a 
nurse  coming  in  a  day  or  two,  and  I  am  afraid  of  not  having 
things  good  enough  for  her.  Papa  requires  nothing  you  know 
but  plain  beef  and  mutton,  tea  and  bread  and  butter ,  but  a 
nurse  will  probably  expect  to  live  much  better ;  give  me 
some  hints  if  you  can.  Mr.  Wilson  says  we  shall  have  to 
stay  here  for  a  month  at  least.  I  wonder  how  Emily  and 
Anne  will  get  on  at  home  with  Branwell.  They,  too,  will 
have  their  troubles.  What  would  I  not  give  to  have  you 
here  !  One  is  forced,  step  by  step,  to  get  experience  in  the 
world ;  but  the  learning  is  so  disagreeable.  One  cheerful 
feature  in  the  business  is,  that  Mr.  Wilson  thinks  most  fa- 
vourably of  the  case." 

"August  26th,  18-i6. 
"  The  operation  is  over ;  it  took  place  yesterday.  Mr. 
Wilson  performed  it ;  two  other  surgeons  assisted.  Mr. 
Wilson  says,  he  considers  it  quite  successful ;  but  papa  can- 
not yet  see  anything.  The  afiair  lasted  precisely  a  quarter 
of  an  hour ;  it  was  not  the  simple  operation  of  couching 
Mr.  C.  described,  but  the  more  complicated  one  of  ex- 
tracting the  cataract.  Mr.  Wilson  entirely  disapproves  of 
couching.  Papa  displayed  extraordinary  patience  and  firm- 
ness ;  the  surgeons  seemed  surprised.  I  was  in  the  room 
all  the  time,  as  it  was  his  wish  that  I  should  be  there ;  of 
course,  I  neither  spoke  nor  moved  till  the  thing  was  done, 
and  then  I  felt  that  the  less  I  said,  either  to  papa  or  the 
"burgeons,  the  better.     Papa  is  now  confined  to  his  bed  in  ?i 


i  LIFE   OF   CIIARLOITE   BRONTE. 

dark  room,  and  is  not  to  be  stirred  for  four  days ;  he  is  to 
speak  and  be  spoken  to  as  little  as  possible.  I  am  greatly 
obliged  to  you  for  your  letter,  and  your  kind  advice,  whicli 
gave  me  extreme  satisfaction,  because  I  found  I  had  ar- 
ranged most  things  in  accordance  with  it,  and,  as  your  theory 
coincides  with  my  practice,  I  feel  assured  the  latter  is  right. 
I  hope  Mr.  Wilson  will  soon  allow  me  to  dispense  with  the 
nurse  ;  she  is  well  enough,  no  doubt,  but  somewhat  too  obse- 
quious ;  and  not,  I  should  think,  to  be  much  trusted ;  yet  I 
was  obliged  to  tru^t  her  in  some  things 

"  Greatly  was  I  amused  by  your  account  of 's  flirta- 
tions ;  and  yet  something  saddened  also.  I  think  Nature 
intended  him  for  something  better  than  to  fritter  away  his 
time  in  making  a  set  of  poor,  unoccupied  spinsters  unhappy. 
The  girls,  unfortunatel}^,  are  forced  to  care  for  him,  and 
such  as  him,  because,  while  their  minds  are  mostly  unem- 
ployed, their  sensations  are  all  unworn,  and,  consequently, 
fresh  and  green ;  and  he,  on  the  contrary,  has  had  his  fill  of 
pleasure,  and  can  with  impunity  make  a  mere  pastime  of 
other  people's  torments.  This  is  an  unfair  state  of  things ; 
the  match  is  not  equal.  I  only  wish  I  had  the  power  to  in- 
fuse into  the  souls  of  the  persecuted  a  little  of  the  quiet 
strength  of  pride — of  the  supporting  consciousness  of  supe- 
riority (for  they  are  superior  to  him  because  purer) — of  the 
fortifying  resolve  of  firmness  to  bear  the  present,  and  wait 

the  end.     Could  all  the  virgin  population  of  receive 

and  retain  these  sentiments,  he  would  continually  have  to 
veil  his  crest  before  them.  Perhaps,  luckily,  their  feelings 
are  not  so  acute  as  one  would  think,  and  the  gentleman's 
shafts  consequently  don't  wound  so  deeply  as  he  might  de 
eire.     I  hope  it  is  so." 

A  few  days  later,  she  writes  thus  :  "  Papa  is  still  lying 
in  bed,  in  a  dark  room,  with  his  eyes  bandaged.  No  in- 
flammation ensued,  but  still  it  appears  the  greatest  care,  per 


SUCCESSFUL    OPERATTOK   FOR   CATARxiCT.  5 

feet  quiet,  and  utter  privation  of  light  are  necessary  to  ensure 
a  good  result  from  the  operation.  He  is  very  patient,  but, 
of  course,  depressed  and  weary.  He  was  allowed  to  try  hit? 
sight  for  the  first  time  yesterday.  He  could  see  dimly.  Mr 
Wilson  seemed  perfectly  satisfied,  and  said  all  was  right.  I 
have  had  bad  nights  from  the  toothache  since  I  came  to 
Manchester.'' 

All  this  time,  notwithstanding  the  domestic  anxieties 
which  were  harassing  them — notwithstanding  the  ill-success 
of  their  poems— the  three  sisters  were  trying  that  other 
literary  venture,  to  which  Charlotte  made  allusion  in  one  of 
her  letters  to  the  Messrs.  Aylott.  Each  of  them  had  written 
a  prose  tale,  hoping  that  the  three  might  be  published  to- 
gether. "  Wuthering  Heights  "  and  "  Agnes  Grey  "  are  be- 
fore the  world.  The  third — -Charlotte's  contribution — is  yet 
in  manuscript,  but  will  be  published  shortly  after  the  appear- 
ance of  this  memoir.  The  plot  in  itself  is  of  no  great  in- 
terest ;  but  it  is  a  poor  kind  of  interest  that  depends  upon 
startling  incidents  rather  than  upon  dramatic  development 
of  character ;  and  Charlotte  Bronte  never  excelled  one  or 
two  sketches  of  portraits  which  she  has  given  in  "  The  Pro- 
fessor," nor,  in  grace  of  womanhood,  ever  surpassed  one  of 
the  female  characters  there  described.  By  the  time  she 
wrote  this  tale,  her  taste  and  judgment  had  revolted  against 
the  exaggerated  idealisms  of  her  early  girlhood,  and  she  went 
to  the  extreme  of  reality,  closely  depicting  characters  as  they 
had  shown  themselves  to  her  in  actual  life :  if  there  they 
were  strong  even  to  coarseness, — as  was  the  case  with  some 
hat  she  had  met  with  in  flesh  and  blood  existence, — she 
"  wrote  them  down  an  ass;"  if  the  scenery  of  such  life  as 
she  saw  was  for  the  most  part  wild  and  grotesque,  instead 
of  pleasant  or  picturesque,  she  described  it  line  for  line. 
The  grace  of  the  one  or  two  scenes  and  characters,  which 
are  drawn  rather  from  her  own  imagination  than  from  abso 


6  LIFE    OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

lute  factj  stand  out  in  exquisite  relief  from  the  deep  shadows 
and  wayward  lines  of  others,  which  call  to  mind  some  of  the 
portraits  of  Rembrandt. 

The  three  tales  had  tried  their  fate  in  vain  together,  at 
length  they  were  sent  forth  separately,  and  for  many  months 
with  still- continued  ill  success.  I  have  mentioned  this  here, 
because,  among  the  dispiriting  circumstances  connected  with 
her  anxious  visit  to  Manchester,  Charlotte  told  me  that  her 
tale  came  back  upon  her  hands,  curtly  rejected  by  some  pub- 
lisher, on  the  very  day  when  her  father  was  to  submit  to  his 
operation.  But  she  had  the  heart  of  Robert  Bruce  within 
her,  and  failure  upon  failure  daunted  her  no  more  than  him. 
Not  only  did  "  The  Professor ''  return  again  to  try  his  chance 
among  the  London  publishers,  but  she  began,  in  this  time  of 
care  and  depressing  inquietude, — in  those  grey,  weary,  uni- 
form streets,  where  all  faces,  save  that  of  her  kind  doctor, 
were  strange  and  untouched  with  sunlight  to  her, — there  and 
then,  did  the  brave  genius  begin  "  Jane  Eyre."  Read  what 
she  herself  says : — "  Currer  Bell's  book  found  acceptance 
nowhere,  nor  any  acknowledgment  of  merit,  so  that  some- 
thing like  the  chill  of  despair  began  to  invade  his  heart." 
And,  remember,  it  was  not  the  heart  of  a  person  who,  disap- 
pointed in  one  hope,  can  turn  with  redoubled  affection  to  the 
many  certain  blessings  that  remain.  Think  of  her  home, 
and  the  black  shadow  of  remorse  lying  over  one  in  it,  till  his 
very  brain  was*  mazed,  and  his  gifts  and  his  life  were  lost ; — 
think  of  her  father's  sight  hanging  on  a  thread ; — of  her  sis- 
ters' delicate  health,  and  dependence  on  her  care ; — and  then 
admire,  as  it  deserves  to  be  admired,  the  steady  courage  which 
could  work  away  at  "  Jane  Eyre,"  all  the  time  "  that  the 
one-volume  tale  was  plodding  its  weary  round  in  London." 

I  believe  I  have  already  mentioned,  that  some  of  her 
Burviving  friends  consider  that  an  incident  which  she  heard, 
when  at  school  at  Miss  Wooler's,  was  the  germ  of  the  story 


TIME   AND   MODE    OF   COMPOSITIOJ^.  7 

of  Jane  Eyre.  But  of  this  nothing  can  be  known,  except 
by  conjecture.  Those  to  whom  she  spoke  upon  the  subject 
of  her  writings  are  dead  and  silent;  and  the  reader  may 
probably  have  noticed,  that  in  the  correspondence  from  which 
I  have  quoted,  there  has  been  no  allusion  whatever  to  the 
publication  of  her  poems,  nor  is  there  the  least  hint  of  the 
intention  of  the  sisters  to  publish  any  tales.  I  remember, 
however,  many  little  particulars  which  Miss  Bronte  gave  me, 
in  answer  to  my  inquiries  respecting  her  mode  of  composi- 
tion, &c.  She  said,  that  it  was  not  every  day  that  she  could 
write.  Sometimes  weeks  or  even  months  elapsed  before  she 
felt  that  she  had  anything  to  add  to  that  portion  of  her  story 
which  was  already  written.  Then,  some  morning,  she  would 
waken  up,  and  the  progress  of  her  tale  lay  clear  and  bright 
before  her,  in  distinct  vision.  When  this  was  the  case,  all 
her  care  was  to  discharge  her  household  and  filial  duties,  so 
as  to  obtain  leisure  to  sit  down  and  write  out  the  incidents 
and  consequent  thoughts,  which  were,  in  fact,  more  present 
to  her  mind  at  such  times  than  her  actual  life  itself.  Yet 
notwithstanding  this  "possession'  (as  it  were),  those  who 
survive,  of  her  daily  and  household  companions,  are  clear  in 
their  testimony,  that  never  was  the  claim  of  any  duty,  nev^r 
was  the  call  of  another  for  help,  neglected  for  an  instant. 
It  had  become  necessary  to  give  Tabby — now  nearly  eighty 
years  of  age — the  assistance  of  a  girl.  Tabby  relinquished 
any  of  her  work  with  jealous  reluctance,  and  could  not  bear 
to  be  reminded,  though  ever  so  delicately,  that  the  acuteness 
of  her  senses  was  dulled  by  age.  The  other  servant  might 
not  interfere  with  what  she  chose  to  consider  her  exclusive 
work.  Among  other  things,  she  reserved  to  herself  the  right 
of  peeling  the  potatoes  for  dinner ;  but  as  she  was  growing 
blind,  she  often  left  in  those  black  specks,  which  we  in  the 
North  call  the  "  eyes  "  of  the  potato.  Miss  Bronte  was  too 
dainty  a  housekeeper  to  put  up  with  this ;  yet  she  could  not 


8  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BKONTE. 

bear  to  hurt  the  faithful  old  servant,  by  bidding  the  youngei 
maiden  go  over  the  potatoes  again,  and  so  reminding  Tabby 
that  her  work  was  less  effectual  than  formerly.  Accord- 
ingly she  would  steal  into  the  kitchen,  and  quietly  carry  off 
tlie  bowl  of  vegetables,  without  Tabby's  being  aware,  and 
breaking  off  in  the  full  flow  of  interest  and  inspiration  in 
her  writing,  carefully  cut  out  the  specks  in  the  potatoes,  and 
noiselessly  carry  them  back  to  their  place.  This  little  pro- 
ceeding may  show  how  orderly  and  fully  she  accomplished 
her  duties,  even  at  those  times  when  the  "  possession  "  was 
upon  her. 

Any  one  who  has  studied  her  writings, — whether  in  print 
or  in  her  letters ;  any  one  who  has  enjoyed  the  rare  privilege 
of  listening  to  her  talk,  must  have  noticed  her  singular  felicity 
in  the  choice  of  words.  She  herself,  in  writing  her  books, 
was  solicitous  on  this  point.  One  set  of  words  was  the 
truthful  mirror  of  her  thoughts ;  no  others,  however  ap- 
parently identical  in  meaning,  would  do.  She  had  that 
strong  practical  regard  for  the  simple  holy  truth  of  expres- 
sion, which  Mr.  Trench  has  enforced,  as  a  duty  too  often 
neglected.  She  would  wait  patiently  searching  for  the  right 
term,  until  it  presented  itself  to  her.  It  might  be  provincial, 
it  might  be  derived  from  the  Latin ;  so  that  it  accurately 
represented  her  idea,  she  did  not  mind  whence  it  came ;  but 
this  care  makes  her  style  present  the  finish  of  a  piece  of 
mosaic.  Each  component  part,  however  small,  has  been 
dropped  into  the  right  place.  She  never  wrote  down  a  sen- 
tence until  she  clearly  understood  what  she  wanted  to  say, 
had  deliberately  chosen  the  words,  and  arranged  them  in 
their  right  order.  Hence  it  comes  that,  in  the  scraps  of 
paper  covered  with  her  pencil  writing  which  I  have  seen, 
there  will  occasionally  be  a  sentence  scored  out,  but  seldom, 
if  ever,  a  word  or  an  expression.  She  wrote  on  these  bits  of 
paper  in  a  minute  hand,  holding  each  against  a  piece  of  board, 


HER   IDEAS    OF   A   HEKOmE.  '      9 

sucli  as  is  used  in  binding  books,  for  a  desk  This  plan  was 
necessary  for  one  so  short-sighted  as  she  was  ;  and,  besides, 
it  enabled  her  to  use  pencil  and  paper,  as  she  sat  near  the 
fire  in  the  twilight  hours,  or  if  (as  was  too  often  the  case) 
she  was  wakeful  for  hours  in  the  night.  Her  finished  manu- 
Bcripts  were  copied  from  these  pencil  scraps,  in  clear,  legible, 
delicate  traced  writing,  almost  as  easy  to  read  as  print. 

The  sisters  retained  the  old  habit,  which  was  begun,  in 
their  aunt's  life-time,  of  putting  away  their  work  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  beginning  their  study,  pacing  up  and  down  the 
sitting  room.  At  this  time,  they  talked  over  the  stories  they 
were  engaged  upon,  and  described  their  plots.  Once  or 
twice  a  week,  each  read  to  the  others  what  she  had  written, 
and  heard  what  they  had  to  say  about  it.  Charlotte  told 
nie,  that  the  remarks  made  had  seldom  any  effect  in  inducing 
her  to  alter  her  work,  so  possessed  was  she  with  the  feeling 
that  she  had  described  reality ;  but  the  readings  were  of 
great  and  stirring  interest  to  all,  taking  them  out  of  the 
gnawing  pressure  of  daily-recurring  cares,  and  setting  them 
in  a  free  place.  It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions,  that 
Charlotte  determined  to  make  her  heroine  plain,  small,  and 
unattractive,  in  defiance  of  the  accepted  canon. 

The  writer  of  the  beautiful  obituary  article  on  ''  the 
death  of  Currer  Bell,"  most  likely  learnt  from  herself  what 
is  there  stated,  and  which  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  quoting, 
about  Jane  Eyre. 

"  She  once  told  her  sisters  that  they  were  wrong — even 
morally  wrong — in  making  their  heroines  beautiful  as  a 
matter  of  course.  They  replied  that  it  was  impossible  to 
Hiake  a  heroine  interesting  on  any  other  terms.  Her  answer 
was,  '  I  will  prove  to  you  that  you  are  wrong  ;  I  will  show 
you  a  heroine  as  plain  and  as  small  as  myself,  who  shall  be 
as  interesting  as  any  of  yours.'  Hence  ^  Jane  Eyre,'  said 
she  in  telling  the  anecdote  :  ^  but  she  is  not  myself,  any  fur- 

VOL.  IT.— 1* 


10  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

fcher  tlian  that.'  As  the  work  went  on,  the  interest  deepened 
to  the  writer.  When  she  came  to  *  Thornfield'  she  could 
not  stop.  Being  short-sighted  to  excess,  she  wrote  in  little 
square  paper-books,  held  close  to  her  eyes,  and  (the  first 
copy)  in  pencil.  On  she  went,  writing  incessantly  for  three 
weeks ;  by  which  time  she  had  carried  her  heroine  away 
from  Thornfield,  and  was  herself  in  a  fever  which  compelled 
her  to  pause." 

This  is  all,  I  believe,  which  can  now  be  told  respecting 
the  conception  and  composition  of  this  wonderful  book,  which 
was,  however,  only  at  its  commencement  when  Miss  Bronte 
returned  with  her  father  to  Haworth,  after  their  anxious  ex- 
pedition to  Manchester. 

They  arrived  at  home  about  the  end  of  September.  Mr. 
Bronte  was  daily  gaining  strength,  but  he  was  still  forbidden 
to  exercise  his  sight  much.  Things  had  gone  on  more  com- 
fortably while  she  was  away  than  Charlotte  had  dared  to 
hope,  and  she  expresses  herself  thankful  for  the  good  ensured 
and  the  evil  spared  during  her  absence. 

Soon  after  this  some  proposal,  of  v,rhich  I  have  not  been 
able  to  gain  a  clear  account,  was  again  mooted  for  Miss 
Bronte's  opening  a  school  at  some  place  distant  from 
Haworth.  It  elicited  the  following  fragment  of  a  charac- 
teristic reply  : — 

^^  Leave  home  ! — I  shall  neither  be  able  to  find  place  nor 
employment,  perhaps,  too,  I  shall  be  quite  past  the  prime  of 
life,  my  faculties  will  be  rusted,  and  my  few  acquirements 
in  a  great  measure  forgotten.  These  ideas  sting  me  keenly 
sometimes  ;  but,  whenever  I  consult  my  conscience,  it  affirms 
that  I  am  doing  right  in  staying  at  home,  and  bitter  are  its 
upbraidings  when  I  yield  to  an  eager  desire  for  release.  I 
could  hardly  expect  success  if  I  were  to  err  against  such 
warniogs.      I   should  like  to  hear  from   you    again   soon 


LETTERS   FKOM   HOME.  11 

Bring to  the  point,  and  make  him  give  you  a  clear, 

not  a  vague,  account  of  what  pupils  he  really  could  promise 
people  often  think  they  can  do  great  things  in  that  way  till 
they  have  tried ;  but  getting  pupils  is  unlike  getting  and 
other  sort  of  goods." 

Whatever  might  be  the  nature  and  extent  of  this  nego- 
tiation, the  end  of  it  was  that  Charlotte  adhered  to  the  deci- 
sion of  her  conscience,  which  bade  her  remain  at  home,  as 
long  as  her  presence  could  cheer  or  comfort  those  who  were 
in  distress,  or  had  the  slightest  influence  over  him  who  was 
the  cause  of  it.  The  next  extract  gives  us  a  glimpse  into 
the  cares  of  that  home.  It  is  from  a  letter  dated  Decern 
ber  15th. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  frozen  up  ;  the  cold  here  is  dread 
ful.  I  do  not  remember  such  a  series  of  North-Pole  days. 
England  might  really  have  taken  a  slide  up  into  the  Arctic 
Zone  ;  the  sky  looks  like  ice  ;  the  earth  is  frozen  ;  the  wind 
is  as  keen  as  a  two-edged  blade.  We  have  all  had  severe 
colds  and  coughs  in  consequence  of  the  weather.  Poor  Anne 
has  suffered  greatly  from  asthma,  but  is  now,  we  are  glad  to 
say,  rather  better.  She  had  two  nights  last  week  when  her 
cough  and  difficulty  of  breathing  were  painful  indeed  to  hear 
and  witness,  and  must  have  been  most  distressing  to  suffer ; 
she  bore  it,  as  she  bears  all  affliction,  without  one  complaint, 
only  sighing  now  and  then  when  nearly  worn  out.  She  has 
an  extraordinary  heroism  of  endurance.  I  admire,  but  I 
certainly  could  not  imitate  her."  ..."  You  say  I  am 
to  *  tell  you  plenty.'  What  would  you  have  me  say  ?  Noth- 
ing happens  at  Haworth ;  nothing,  at  least,  of  a  pleasant 
kind.  One  little  incident  occurred  about  a  week  ago,  to 
sting  us  to  life  ;  but  if  it  gives  no  more  pleasure  for  you  to 
hear,  than  it  did  for  us  to  witness,  you  will  scarcely  thank 


12  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BEONTE. 

me  for  adverting  to  it.  It  was  merely  the  arrival  of  a 
Sheriff's  officer  on  a  visit  to  B.,  inviting  him  either  to  pay 
his  debts  or  take  a  trip  to  York.  Of  course  his  debts  had 
to  be  paid.  It  is  not  agreeable  to  lose  money,  time  after 
time,  in  this  way ;  but  where  is  the  use  of  dwelling  on  such 
subjects  ?     It  will  make  him  no  better." 

"  December  28th. 
"  I  feel  as  if  it  was  almost  a  farce  to  sit  down  and  write 
to  you  now,  with  nothing  to  say  worth  listening  to ;  and, 
indeed,  if  it  were  not  for  two  reasons,  I  should  put  off  the 
business  at  least  a  fortnight  hence.  The  first  reason  is,  I 
want  another  letter  from  you,  for  your  letters  are  interesting, 
they  have  something  in  them  ;  some  results  of  experience  and 
observation ;  one  receives  them  with  pleasure,  and  reads 
them  with  relish ;  and  these  letters  I  cannot  expect  to  get, 
unless  I  reply  to  them.  I  wish  the  correspondence  could  be 
managed  so  as  to  be  all  on  one  side.  The  second  reason  is 
derived  from  a  remark  in  your  last,  that  you  felt  lonely, 
something  as  I  was  at  Brussels,  and  that  consequently  you 
had  a  peculiar  desire  to  hear  from  old  acquaintance.  I  can 
understand  and  sympathize  with  this.  I  remember  the 
shortest  note  was  a  treat  to  me,  when  I  was  at  the  above- 
named  place  ;  therefore  I  write.  I  have  also  a  third  reason  : 
it  is  a  haunting  terror  lest  you  should  imagine  I  forget  you — 
that  my  regard  cools  with  absence.  It  is  not  in  my  nature 
to  forget  your  nature ;  though,  I  dare  say,  I  should  spit  fir^ 
and  explode  sometimes,  if  we  lived  together  continually 
and  you,  too,  would  get  angry,  and  then  we  should  get  recon- 
ciled and  jog  on  as  before.  Do  you  ever  get  dissatisfied  with 
your  own  temper  when  you  are  long  fixed  to  one  place,  in 
one  scene,  subject  to  one  monotonous  species  of  annoyance  ? 
I  do :  I  am  now  in  that  unenviable  frame  of  mind ;  my 
•  humour,  I  think,  is  too  soon  overthrown,  too  sore,  too  demon- 


CONFESSION    AND   COUNSEL.  J  3 

gtrative  and  vehement.  I  almost  long  for  some  of  the  uni- 
form serenity  you  describe  in  Mrs. 's  disposition  ;  or,  at 

least,  I  would  fain  have  her  power  of  self-control  and  con- 
cealment ;  but  I  would  not  take  her  artificial  habits  and  ideas 
along  with  her  composure.  After  all,  I  should  prefer  being 
as  I  am.  .  .  .  You  do  right  not  to  be  annoyed  at  any 
maxims  of  conventionality  you  meet  with.  Regard  all  new 
ways  in  the  light  of  fresh  experience  for  you  :  if  you  see  any 
honey  gather  it."  .  •  ,  .  ^'  I  don't,  after  all,  consider 
that  we  ought  to  despise  every  thing  we  see  in  the  world, 
merely  because  it  is  not  what  we  are  accustomed  to.  I  sus- 
pect, on  the  contrary,  that  there  are  not  unfrequently  sub- 
stantial reasons  underneath  for  customs  that  appear  to  us 
absurd;  and  if  I  were  ever  again  to  find  myself  amongst 
strangers,  I  should  be  solicitous  to  examine  before  I  con- 
demned. Indiscriminating  irony  and  fault-finding  are  just 
sumphisJmesSj  and  that  is  all.  Anne  is  now  much  better, 
but  papa  has  been  for  near  a  fortnight  far  from  well  with  the 
influenza ;  he  has  at  times  a  most  distressing  cough,  and  his 
spirits  are  much  depressed." 

So  3nded  the  year  184G. 


I*  LIFE   OF    CHARLOTTE   liEONTE. 


CHAPTEK     II. 

Tlik  next  year  opened  with  a  spell  of  cold  dreary  weather, 
which  told  severely  on  a  constitution  already  tried  by  anx- 
iety and  care.  Miss  Bronte  describes  herself  as  having  ut- 
terly lost  her  appetite,  and  as  looking  "  grey,  old,  worn  and 
sunk,"  from  her  sufferings  during  the  inclement  season. 
The  cold  brought  on  severe  toothache ;  toothache  was  the 
cause  of  a  succession  of  restless  miserable  nights  ;  and  long 
wakefulness  told  acutely  upon  her  nerves,  making  them  feel 
with  redoubled  sensitiveness  all  the  harass  of  her  oppressive 
life.  Yet  she  would  not  allow  herself  to  lay  her  bad  health 
to  the  change  of  an  uneasy  mind ;  "  for  after  all,''  said  she 
at  this  time,  "  I  have  many,  many  things  to  be  thankful  for.*' 
But  the  real  state  of  things  may  be  gathered  from  the  fol- 
lowing extractsr  from  her  lo'-.ters. 

"  March  1st, 
"  Even  at  the  risk  of  appearing  very  exacting,  I  can't 
help  saying  that  I  should  like  a  letter  as  long  as  your  last, 
every  time  you  write.  Short  notes  give  one  the  feeling  of  a 
very  small  piece  of  a  very  good  thing  to  eat, — they  set  the 
appetite  on  edge,  and  don't  satisfy  it, — a  letter  leaves  you 
more  contented ;  and  yet,  after  all,  I  am  very  glad  to  get 
notes  ]  ?,o  don't  think,  when  you  are  pinchr;d  for  time  and 


FAMILY   TEIALS.  15 

materials,  that  it  is  useless  to  write  a  few  lines ;  be  assured, 
a  few  lines  are  very  acceptable  as  far  as  they  go ;  and  though 
I  like  long  letters,  I  would  by  no  means  have  you  to  make 
a  task  of  writing  them  .  .  ♦  .  I  really  should  like  you  to 

come  to  Haworth,  before  I  again  go  to   B — .     And  it 

is  natural  and  right  that  I  should  have  this  wish.  To  keep 
friendship  in  proper  order,  the  balance  of  good  offices  must 
be  preserved,  otherwise  a  disquieting  and  anxious  feeling 
creeps  in,  and  destroys  mutual  comfort.  In  summer  and  in 
fine  weather,  your  visit  here  might  be  much  better  managed 
than  in  winter.  We  could  go  out  more,  be  more  indepen- 
dent of  the  house  and  of  our  room.  Branwell  has  been  con- 
ducting himself  very  badly  lately.  I  expect,  from  the  ex- 
travagance of  his  behaviour,  and  from  mysterious  hints  he 
drops  (for  he  never  will  speak  out  plainly),  that  we  shall  be 
hearing  news  of  fresh  debts  contracted  by  him  soon.  My 
health  is  better  ;  I  lay  the  blame  of  its  feebleness  on  the  cold 
weather,  more  than  on  an  uneasy  mind." 

*' March  24th,  1847. 
''It  is  at  Haworth,  if  all  be  well,  that  we  must  next  see 
each    other    again.     I  owe   you  a  grudge  for  giving  Miss 

M some  very  exaggerated  account  about  my  not  being 

well,  and  setting  her  on  to  urge  my  leaving  home  as  quite  a 
duty,  I'll  take  care  not  to  tell  you  next  time,  when  I  think 
I  am  looking  specially  old  and  ugly ;  as  if  people  could  not 
have  that  privilege,  without  being  supposed  to  be  at  the  last 
gasp  !  I  shall  be  thirty-one  next  birthday.  My  youth  is 
gone  like  a  dream  ;  and  very  little  use  have  I  ever  made  of 
it.  What  have  I  done  these  last  thirty  years  ?  Precious 
little.'' 

The  quiet,  sad  year  stole  on.     The  sisters  were  contem- 
plating near  at  hand,  and  for  a  long  time,  the  terrible  effects 


IG  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BRONTE. 

of  talents  misused  and  faculties  abused  in  the  person  of  thai 
brother,  once  their  fond  darling  and  dearest  pride.  They 
had  to  cheer  the  poor  old  father,  into  whose  heart  all  trials 
sank  the  deeper,  because  of  the  silent  stoicism  of  his  endu- 
rance. They  had  to  watch  over  his  health,  of  which,  what- 
eyer  was  its  state,  he  seldom  complained.  They  had  to  save, 
as  much  as  they  could,  the  precious  remnants  of  his  sight. 
They  had  to  order  the  frugal  household  with  increased  care, 
so  as  to  supply  wants  and  expenditure  utterly  foreign  to  their 
self-denying  natures.  Though  they  shrank  from  overmuch 
contact  with  their  fellow-beings,  for  all  whom  they  met  they 
had  kind  words,  if  few ;  and  when  kind  actions  were  needed, 
they  were  not  spared,  if  the  sisters  at  the  parsonage  could 
render  them.  They  visited  the  parish  schools  duly;  and 
often  were  Charlotte's  rare  and  brief  holidays  of  a  visit  from 
home  shortened  by  her  sense  of  the  necessity  of  being  in  her 
place  at  the  Sunday-school. 

In  the  intervals  of  such  a  life  as  this,  "  Jane  Eyre  "  was 
making  progress.  *'  The  Professor  "  was  passing  slowly  and 
heavily  from  publisher  to  publisher.  "  Wuthering  Heights  ' 
and  "  Agnes  Grey  "  had  been  accepted  by  another  publisher, 
"  on  terms  somewhat  impoverishing  to  the  two  authors ;  "  a 
bargain  to  be  alluded  to  more  fully  hereafter.  It  was  lying 
in  his  hands,  awaiting  his  pleasure  for  its  passage  through  the 
press,  during  all  the  months  of  early  summer. 

The  piece  of  external  brightness  to  which  the  sisters 
looked  during  these  same  summer  months,  was  the  hope  that 
the  friend  to  whom  so  many  of  Charlotte's  letters  are  ad- 
dressed, and  who  was  her  chosen  companion,  whenever  cir- 
cumstances permitted  them  to  be  together,  as  well  as  a  favour- 
ite with  Emily  and  Anne,  would  be  able  to  pay  them  a  visit 
at  Haworth.  Fine  weather  had  come  in  May,  Charlotte 
writes^  and  they  hoped  to  make  their  visitor  decently  com- 
fortable.    Their  brother  was  tolerably  well,  Iiaving  got  to 


A   DISAPPOINTMENT.  i  i 

the  end  of  a  considerable  sum  of  money  which  he  became 
possessed  of  in  the  spring,  and  therefore  under  the  wholesome 
restriction  of  poverty.  Eut  Charlotte  warns  her  friend  that 
she  must  expect  to  find  a  change  in  his  appearance,  and  that 
he  is  broken  in  mind ;  and  ends  her  note  of  entreating  invi* 
tation  by  saying,  "  I  pray  for  fine  weather,  that  we  may  get 
out  while  you  stay." 

At  length  the  day  was  fixed. 

"  Friday  will  suit  us  very  well.  I  do  trust  nothing  will 
now  arise  to  prevent  your  coming.  I  shall  be  anxious  about 
the  weather  on  that  day ;  if  it  rains,  I  shall  cry.  Don't  ex- 
pect me  to  meet  you ;  where  would  be  the  good  of  it  ?  I  neither 
like  to  meet,  nor  to  be  met.  Unless,  indeed,  you  had  a  box 
or  a  basket  for  me  to  carry ;  then  there  would  be  some  sense 
in  it.  Come  in  black,  blue,  pink,  white,  or  scarlet,  as  you 
like.  Come  shabby  or  smart ;  neither  the  colour  nor  the  con- 
dition signifies;  provided  only  the  dress  contain   E , 

all  will  be  right." 

But  there  came  the  first  of  a  series  of  disappointments  to 
be  borne.  One  feels  how  sharp  it  must  have  been  to  have 
wrung  out  the  following  words. 

**  May  20th. 

"  Your  letter  of  yesterday  did  indeed  give  me  a  cruel 
chill  of  disappointment.     I  cannot  blame  you,  for  I  know  it 

was  not  your  fault.     I  do  not  altogether  exempt from 

reproach This  is  bitter,  but  I  feel  bitter.     As  to 

going  to  B ,  I  will  not  go  near  the  place  till  you  have 

been  to  Haworth.  My  respects  to  all  and  sundry,  accom- 
panied with  a  large  amount  of  wormwood  and  gall,  from  the 
effusion  of  which  you  and  your  mother  are  alone  excepted. 
— G.  B. 

"  You  are  quite  at  liberty  to  tell  what  I  think,  if  you 
judge  proper.     Though  it  is  true  I  may  be  somewhat  unjust^ 


18  LIFE    OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

for  I  am  deeply  annoyed.  I  thouglit  I  had  arranged  your 
visit  tolerably  comfortable  for  you  this  time.  I  may  find  it 
more  difficult  on  another  occasion." 

I  must  give  one  sentence  from  a  letter  written  about  this 
time,  as  it  shows  distinctly  the  clear  strong  sense  of  the 
writer. 

"  I  was  amused  by  what  she  says  respecting  her  wish 
that,  when  she  marries,  her  husband  will,  at  least,  have  a 
will  of  his  own,  even  should  he  be  a  tyrant.  Tell  her,  when 
she  forms  that  aspiration  again,  she  must  make  it  condition- 
al :  if  her  husband  has  a  strong  will,  he  must  also  have 
strong  sense,  a  kind  heart,  and  a  thoroughly  correct  notion 
of  justice ;  because  a  man  with  a  weak  brain  and  a  strong 
will  J  is  merely  an  intractable  brute  ;  you  can  have  no  hold 
of  him ;  you  can  never  lead  him  right.  A  tyrant  under 
any  circumstances  is  a  curse." 

Meanwhile,  "  The  Professor  "  had  met  with  many  refu- 
sals from  different  publishers  ;  some,  I  have  reason  to  believe, 
not  over-courteously  worded  in  writing  to  an  unknown  au- 
thor, and  none  alleging  any  distinct  reasons  for  its  rejection. 
Courtesy  is  always  due ;  but  it  is,  perhaps,  hardly  to  be  ex- 
pected that,  in  the  press  of  business  in  a  great  publishing 
house,  they  should  find  time  to  explain  why  they  decline  par- 
ticular works.  Yet,  though  one  course  of  action  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at,  the  opposite  may  fall  upon  a  grieved  and 
disappointed  mind  with  all  the  graciousness  of  dew ;  and  I 
can  well  sympathize  with  the  published  account  which 
"  Currer  Bell "  gives,  of  the  feelings  experienced  on  reading 
Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder's  letter  containing  the  rejection  of 
«  The  Professor." 

"  As  a  forlorn  hope,  we  tried  one  publishing  house  mere. 
Erelong,  in  a  much  .shorter  space  than  that  on  which  experience 


KEJECTION    OF    ^^  THE   PK0FE8S0R."  19 

liad  taught  him  to  calculate,  there  came  a  letter,  which  he 
opened  in  the  dreary  anticipation  of  finding  two  hard  hopelese 
lines,  intimating  that  *  Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder  were  not  dis- 
posed to  publish  the  MS.,'  and,  instead,  he  took  out  of  the  en- 
velope a  letter  of  two  pages.  He  read  it  trembling.  It  de- 
clined,  indeed,  to  publish  that  tale,  for  business  reasons,  but  it 
discussed  its  merits  and  demerits,  so  courteously,  so  consider- 
ately, in  a  spirit  so  rational,  with  a  discrimination  so  en- 
lightened, that  this  very  refusal  cheered  the  author  better 
than  a  vulgarly-expressed  acceptance  would  have  done.  It 
was  added,  that  a  work  in  three  volumes  would  meet  with 
careful  attention." 

Mr.  Smith  has  told  me  a  little  circumstance  connected 
with  the  reception  of  this  manuscript,  which  seems  to  me  in- 
dicative of  no  ordinary  character.  It  came  (accompanied  by 
the  note  given  below)  in  a  brown  paper  parcel,  to  65  Corn- 
hill.  Besides  the  address  to  Messrs.  Smith  and  Co.,  there 
were  on  it  those  of  other  publishers  to  whom  the  tale  had 
been  sent,  not  obliterated,  but  simply  scored  through,  so  that 
Messrs.  Smith  at  once  perceived  the  names  of  some  of  the 
houses  in  the  trade  to  which  the  unlucky  parcel  had  gone, 
without  success. 


TO  MESSRS.  SMITH  AND  ELDER. 

"July  15th,  1847. 
*'  Gentlemen, — I  beg  to  submit  to  your  consideration  tlie 
accompanying  manuscript.  I  should  be  glad  to  learn  wheth- 
er it  be  such  as  you  approve,  and  would  undertake  to  pub- 
lish at  as  early  a  period  as  possible.  Address,  Mr.  Currer 
Bell,  under  cover  to  Miss  Bronte,  Haworth,  Bradford, 
Yorkshire." 

Some  time  elapsed  before  an  answer  was  returned. 


20  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

A  little  circumstance  may  he  mentioned  here,  thougli  it 
belongs  to  a  somewhat  earlier  period,  as  showing  Miss 
Bronte's  inexperience  of  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  willing 
deference  to  the  opinion  of  others.  She  had  written  to  a 
publisher  about  one  of  her  manuscripts,  which  she  had  sent 
him,  and,  not  receiving  any  reply,  she  consulted  her  brother 
as  to  what  could  be  the  reason  for  the  prolonged  silence. 
He  at  once  set  it  down  to  her  not  having  enclosed  a  postage- 
stamp  in  her  letter.  She  accordingly  wrote  again,  to  repair 
her  former  omission,  and  apologise  for  it. 

TO  MESSRS.  SMITH  AND  ELDER. 

"August  2nd,  18^7. 
*'  Gentlemen, — About  three  weeks  since,  I  sent  for  youi 
consideration  a  MS.  entitled  '  The  Professor,  a  tale  by  Currei 
Bell.'  I  should  be  glad  to  know  whether  it  reached  your 
hands  safely,  and  likewise  to  learn,  at  your  earliest  conven 
ience,  whether  it  be  such  as  you  can  undertake  to  publish. — 
I  am,  gentlemen,  yours  respectfully, 

^'  CcRRER  Bell. 
"  I  enclose  a  directed  cover  for  your  reply.' 

This  time  her  note  met  with  a  prompt  answer  ;  for,  four 
days  later,  she  writes  (in  reply  to  the  letter  which  she  after- 
wards characterised  in  the  Preface  to  the  second  edition  of 
"  Wuthering  Heights,"  as  containing  a  refusal  so  delicate, 
reasonable,  and  courteous,  as  to  be  more  cheering  than  some 
acceptances) : 

"  Your  objection  to  the  wane  of  varied  interest  in  the 
tale  is,  I  am  aware,  not  without  grounds ;  yet  it  appears  to 
me  that  it  might  be  published  without  serious  risk,  if  its  ap- 
pearance were  speedily  followed  up  by  another  work  from 
the  same  pen,  of  a  more  striking  and  exciting  character. 


CORKESrONDENCE   ABOUT    ^^  THE   PROFESiiOR."  21 

The  first  work  miglit  serve  as  an  introduction,  and  accustom 
the  public  to  the  author's  name :  the  success  of  the  second 
might  thereby  be  rendered  more  probable.  I  have  a  second 
narrative  in  three  volumes,  now  in  progress,  and  nearly  com- 
pleted, to  which  I  have  endeavoured  to  impart  a  more  vivid 
interest  than  belongs  to  '  The  Professor.'  In  about  a  month 
I  hope  to  finish  it,  so  that  if  a  publisher  were  found  for 
*  The  Professor,'  the  second  narrative  might  follow  as  soon  as 
was  deemed  advisable ;  and  thus  the  interest  of  the  public 
(if  any  interest  was  aroused)  might  not  be  suffered  to  cool. 
Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  favour  me  with  your  judgment 
on  this  plan  ?" 

While  the  minds  of  the  three  sisters  were  in  this  state  of 
suspense,  their  long-expected  friend  came  to  pay  her  promised 
visit.  She  was  with  them  at  the  beginning  of  the  glowing 
August  of  that  year.  They  were  out  on  the  moors  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  day,  basking  in  the  golden  sunshine,  which 
was  bringing  on  an  unusual  plenteousness  of  harvest,  for 
which,  somewhat  later,  Charlotte  expressed  her  earnest  desire 
that  there  should  be  a  thanksgiving  service  in  all  the 
churches.  August  was  the  season  of  glory  for  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Haworth.  Even  the  smoke,  lying  in  the  valley  be- 
tween that  village  and  Keighley,  took  beauty  from  the  radi- 
ant colours  on  the  moors  above,  the  rich  purple  of  the 
heather  bloom  calling  out  an  harmonious  contrast  in  the 
tawny  golden  light  that,  in  the  full  heat  of  summer  evenings, 
comes  stealing  everywhere  through  the  dun  atmosphere  of  the 
hollows.  And  up,  on  the  moors,  turning  away  from  all 
habitations  of  men,  the  royal  ground  on  which  they  stood 
would  expand  into  long  swells  of  amethyst-tinted  hills,  melt- 
ing away  into  aerial  tints ;  and  the  fresh  and  fragrant  scent 
of  the  heather,  and  the  "murmur  of  innumerable  bees,'' 
would  lend  a  poignancy  to  the  relish  with  which  they  wel- 


22  LIFE    OF   CHARLOTTE   BKONTE. 

corned  tlieir  friend  to  their  own  true  home  on  the  wild  &nd 
open  hills. 

There,  too  they  could  escape  from  the  Shadow  in  the 
house  below. 

Throughout  this  time — during  all  these  confidences — not 
a  word  was  uttered  to  their  friend  of  the  three  tales  in  Lon- 
don ;  two  accepted  and  in  the  press — one  trembling  in  the 
balance  of  a  publisher's  judgment ;  nor  did  she  hear  of  that 
other  story  ^^  nearly  completed,"  lying  in  manuscript  in  the 
grey  old  parsonage  down  below.  She  might  have  her  sus- 
picions that  they  all  wrote  with  an  intention  of  publication 
some  time ;  but  she  knew  the  bounds  which  they  set  to 
themselves  in  their  communications ;  nor  could  she,  nor  can 
any  one  else,  wonder  at  their  reticence,  when  remembering 
how  scheme  after  scheme  had  failed,  just  as  it  seemed  close 
upon  accomplishment. 

Mr.  Bronte,  too,  had  his  suspicions  of  something  going 
on ;  but,  never  being  spoken  to,  he  did  not  speak  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  consequently  his  ideas  were  vague  and  uncertain, 
only  just  prophetic  enough  to  keep  him  from  being  actually 
stunned  when,  later  on,  he  heard  of  the  success  of  '^  Jane 
Eyre ;  "  tc  the  progress  of  which  we  must  now  return. 

TO    MKSSHS.    SMITH    AND    ELDEE. 

♦'August  2Un. 

"  I  now  send  you  per  rail  a  MS.  entitled  *  Jane  Eyre,'  a 
novel  in  three  volumes,  by  Currer  Bell.  I  find  I  cannot  pre- 
pay the  carriage  of  the  parcel,  as  money  for  that  purpose 
is  not  received  at  the  small  station-house  where  it  is  left 
If,  when  you  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  the  MS.,  you  would 
have  the  goodness  to  mention  the  amount  charged  on  de- 
livery, I  will  immediately  transmit  it  in  postage  stamps.  It 
is  better  in  future  to  address  Mr.  Currer  Bell,  under    cover 


COMPLETION   OF   "  JANE  EYRE."  23 

to  Miss  Bronte,  Haworth,  Bradford,  YorksHre,  as  there  is  a 
risk  of  letters  otherwise  directed  not  reaching  me  at  present 
To  save  trouble,  I  enclose  an  envelope." 

"  Jane  Eyre  "  was  accepted,  and  printed  and  published 
by  October  16th. 

While  it  was  in  the  press,  Miss  Bronte  went  to  pay  a 
short  visit  to  her  friend  at  B .  The  proofs  were  for- 
warded to  her  there,  and  she  occasionally  sat  at  the  same 
table  with  her  friend,  correcting  them ;  but  they  did  not  ex- 
change a  word  on  the  subject. 

Immediately  on  her  return  to  the  Parsonage,  she 
wrote : 

"  September. 

'^  I  had  a  very  wet,  windy  walk  home  from  Keighley ; 
but  my  fatigue  quite  disappeared  when  I  reached  home,  and 
found  all  well.     Thank  God  for  it. 

My  boxes  came  safe  this  morning.  I  have  distributed 
the  presents.  Papa  says  I  am  to  remember  him  most  kindly 
to  you.  The  screen  will  be  very  useful,  and  he  thanks  you 
for  it.  Tabby  was  charmed  with  her  cap.  She  said,  '  she 
never  thought  o'  naught  o'  t'  sort  as  Miss  sending  her  aught, 
and,  she  is  sure,  she  can  never  thank  her  enough  for  it.'  I 
was  infuriated  on  finding  a  jar  in  my  trunk.  At  first,  I 
hoped  it  was  empty,  but  when  I  found  it  heavy  and  replete, 
I  could  have  hurled  it  all  the  way  back  to  B .  How- 
ever, the  inscription  A.  B.  softened  me  much.  It  was  at 
once  kind  and  villanous  in  you  to  send  it.  You  ought  first 
to  be  tenderly  kissed,  and  then  afterwards  as  tenderly  whip- 
ped. Emily  is  just  now  on  the  floor  of  the  bedroom  where 
I  am  writing,  looking  at  her  apples.  She  smiled  when  I 
gave  the  collar  to  her  as  your  present,  with  an  expression  at 
once  well-pleased  and  slightly  surprised.  All  send  their 
love. — Yours,  in  a  mixture  of  anger  and  love.'' 


24  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

When  the  manuscript  of  "  Jane  Eyre"  had  been  received 
by  the  future  publishers  of  that  remarkable  novel,  it  fell  to 
the  share  of  a  gentleman  connected  with  the  firm  to  read  it 
first.  He  was  so  powerfully  struck  by  the  character  of  the 
tale,  that  he  reported  his  impression  in  very  strong  terms  to 
Mr.  Smith,  who  appears  to  have  been  much  amused  by  the 
admiration  excited.  "  You  seem  to  have  been  so  enchanted, 
that  I  do  not  know  how  to  believe  you,"  he  laughingly  said. 
But  when  a  second  reader,  in  the  person  of  a  clear-headed 
Scotchman,  not  given  to  enthusiasm,  had  taken  the  MS. 
home  in  the  evening,  and  became  so  deeply  interested  in  it^ 
as  to  sit  up  half  the  night  to  finish  it,  Mr.  Smith's  curiosity 
was  sufficiently  excited  to  prompt  him  to  read  it  for  himself ; 
and  great  as  were  the  praises  which  had  been  bestowed 
upon  it,  he  found  that  they  had  not  exceeded  the  truth. 

On  its  publication,  copies  were  presented  to  a  few  private 
literary  friends.  Their  discernment  had  been  rightly  reck- 
oned upon.  They  were  of  considerable  standing  in  the 
world  of  letters ;  and  one  and  all  returned  expressions  of  high 
praise  along  with  their  thanks  for  the  book.  Among  them 
was  the  great  writer  of  fiction  for  whom  Miss  Bronte  felt  so 
strong  an  admiration;  he  immediately  appreciated,  and,  in  a 
characteristic  note  to  the  publishers,  acknowledged  its  extra- 
ordinary merits. 

The  Keviev/s  were  more  tardy,  or  more  cautious.  The 
*' Athenasum"  and  the  "  Spectator"  gave  short  notices,  con- 
taining qualified  admissions  of  the  power  of  the  author. 
The  "  Literary  Gazette"  was  uncertain  as  to  whether  it  was 
Bafe  to  praise  an  unknown  author.  The  ^^  Daily  News" 
declined  accepting  the  copy  which  had  been  sent,  on  the 
score  of  a  rule  "  never  to  review  novels ;  "  but  a  little  later 
on,  there  appeared  a  notice  of  the  "  Bachelor  of  the  Albany," 
in  that  paper  ;  and  Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder  again  forwarded 
a  copy  of  "  Jane  Eyre"  to  the  Editor,  with  a  rer^uest  for  a 


SUCCESS   OF  JANE  EYEE.  25 

notice.      This  time  the  work  was  accepted ,  but  I  am  not 
aware  what  was  the  character  of  the  article  upon  it. 

The  "  Examiner'*  came  forward  to  the  rescue,  as  far  as 
the  opinions  of  professional  critics  were  concerned.  The 
literary  articles  in  that  paper  were  always  remarkable  for 
their  genial  and  generous  appreciation  of  merit ;  nor  was  th 
notice  of  "  Jane  Eyre"  an  exception  ;  it  was  full  of  hearty, 
yet  delicate  and  discriminating  praise.  Otherwise,  the  press 
in  general  did  little  to  promote  the  sale  of  the  novel ;  the 
demand  for  it  among  librarians  had  begun  before  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  review  in  the  "  Examiner ;  "  the  power  and 
fascination  of  the  tale  itself  made  its  merits  known  to  the 
public,  without  the  kindly  finger-posts  of  professional 
criticism;  and,  early  in  December,  the  rush  began  for 
copies. 

I  will  insert  two  or  three  of  Miss  Bronte's  letters  to  her 
publishers,  in  order  to  show  how  timidly  the  idea  of  success 
was  received  by  one  so  unaccustomed  to  adopt  a  sanguine 
view  of  any  subject  in  which  she  was  individually  concerned. 
The  occasions  on  which  these  notes  were  written,  will  ex- 
plain themselves. 


MESSPvS,  SMITH,  ELDER,  AND  CO. 

*'Oct.  19tli,  1847. 
*^  Gentlemen, — The  six  copies  of  *  Jane  Eyre  '  reached 
me  this  morning.  You  have  given  the  work  every  advan- 
tage which  good  paper,  clear  type,  and  a  seemly  outside 
can  supply ; — if  it  fails,  the  fault  will  lie  with  the  author, — - 
you  are  exempt. 

*^  I  now  await  the  judgment  of  the  press  and  the  public. 
I  am,  Gentlemen,  yours  respectfully. 

"  C.  Bell." 

VOL.    IL — -2 


26  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BKONTE. 


MESSRS.  SMITH,  ELDER,   AND  CO. 

"Oct.  26th,  184Y. 

^'  Gentlemen, — I  have  received  the  newspapers.  Thej 
speak  quite  as  favourably  of  *  Jane  Eyre '  as  I  expected 
them  to  do.  The  notice  in  the  *  Literary  Gazette '  seems 
certainly  to  have  been  indited  in  rather  a  flat  mood,  and  the 
^  Athenaeum '  has  a  style  of  its  own,  which  I  respect,  but 
cannot  exactly  relish;  still  when  one  considers  that  journals 
of  that  standing  have  a  dignity  to  maintain  which  would 
be  deranged  by  a  too  cordial  recognition  of  the  claims  of 
an  obscure  author,  I  suppose  there  is  every  reason  to  be 
satisfied. 

"Meantime  a  brisk  sale  would  be  effectual  support 
ander  the  hauteur  of  lofty  critics.  I  am,  Gentlemen,  yours 
respectfully,  "  C.  Bell." 

MESSRS.   SMITH,  ELDER,  AND  CO. 

"Nov.  13th,  1847. 
"  Gentlemen, — I  have  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of 
yours  of  the  11th  inst.,  and  to  thank  you  for  the  information 
it  communicates.  The  notice  from  the  '  People's  Journal ' 
also  duly  reached  me,  and  this  morning  I  received  the 
*  Spectator.'  The  critique  in  the  *  Spectator  '  gives  that  view 
of  the  book  which  will  naturally  be  taken  by  a  certain  class 
of  minds ;  I  shall  expect  it  to  be  followed  by  other  notices 
of  a  similar  nature.  The  way  to  detraction  has  been  pointed 
out,  and  will  probably  be  pursued.  Most  future  notices  will 
in  all  likelihood  have  a  reflection  of  the  ^  Spectator '  in  theni» 
I  fear  this  turn  of  opinion  will  not  improve  the  demand  for 
the  book — ^but  time  will  show.  If  '  Jane  Eyre  '  has  any 
solid  worth  in  it,  it  ought  to  weather  a  gust  of  unfavourable 
wind.     I  am.  Gentlemen,  yours  respectfully, 

"  C.  Bell.'- 


HER   COMMENTS    ON   THE   CRITIQUES.  27 


MESSRS.  SMITH,  ELDER,  AND  CO. 

"Nov.  SOth,  184Y. 

^'  Gentlemen, — I  have  received  the  '  Economist,'  but  not 
the  '  Examiner ; '  from  some  cause  that  paper  has  missed,  as 
the  '  Spectator '  did  on  a  former  occasion ;  I  am  glad,  how- 
ever to  learn  through  your  letter,  that  its  notice  of  *  Jane 
Eyre '  was  favourable,  and  also  that  the  prospects  of  the  work 
appear  to  improve. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  information  ^^especting 
'  Wuthering  Heights.'  I  am.  Gentlemen,  yours  respect- 
fully, 

"  C.  Bell." 

TO  MESSRS.   SMITH,  ELDER,  AND  CO. 

"Dec.  1st,  1847. 
"  Gentlemen, — The  ^  Examiner '  reached  me  to-day ;  it 
had  been  missent  on  account  of  the  direction,  which  was  to 
Currer  Bell,  care  of  Miss  Bronte.  Allow  me  to  intimate 
that  it  would  be  better  in  future  not  to  put  the  name  of 
Currer  Bell  on  the  outside  of  communications ;  if  directed 
simply  to  Miss  Bronte  they  will  be  more  likely  to  reach 
their  destination  safely.  Currer  Bell  is  not  known  in  the 
district,  and  I  have  no  wish  that  he  should  become  known. 
The  notice  in  the  '  Examiner '  gratified  me  very  much ;  it 
appears  to  be  from  the  pen  of  an  able  man  who  has  under- 
stood what  he  undertakes  to  criticise  ;  of  course,  approbation 
from  such  a  quarter  is  encouraging  to  an  author,  and  I  trust 
it  will  prove  beneficial  to  the  work.  I  am,  Gentlemen,  yours 
rsspectfuUy, 

"  C.  Bell." 

"  I  received  likewise  seven  other  notices  from  provincial 


28  LIFE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BEONTE. 

papers  enclosed  in  an  envelope.  I  tliank  you  very  sincerely 
for  so  punctually  sending  me  all  the  various  criticisms  on 
*  Jane  Eyre.'  " 

TO    MESSRS.  SMITH,  ELDER,  AND  CO. 

"Dec.  10th,  184'7. 

"  Gentlemen, — I  beg  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  your 
letter  inclosing  a  bank  post  bill,  for  which  I  thank  you. 
Having  already  expressed  my  sense  of  your  kind  and  up- 
right conduct,  I  can  now  only  say  that  I  trust  you  will  al- 
w^ays  have  reason  to  be  as  well  content  with  me  as  I  am  with 
you.  If  the  result  of  any  future  exertions  I  may  be  able 
to  make  should  prove  agreeable  and  advantageous  to  you,  I 
shall  be  well  satisfied ;  and  it  would  be  a  serious  source  of 
regret  to  me  if  I  thought  you  ever  had  reason  to  repent 
being  my  publishers. 

"  You  need  not  apologise.  Gentlemen,  for  having  written 
to  me  so  seldom;  of  course  I  am  always  glad  to  hear  from 
you,  but  I  am  truly  glad  to  hear  from  Mr.  Williams  like- 
wise; he  was  my  first  favourable  critic;  he  first  gave  me 
encouragement  to  persevere  as  an  author,  consequently  I 
naturally  respect  him  and  feel  grateful  to  him. 

"  Excuse  the  informality  of  my  letter,  and  believe  me, 
Gentlemen,  yours  respectfully, 

"  CuRRER  Bell." 

There  is  little  record  remaining  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  first  news  of  its  wonderful  success  reached  and  aJBfected 
the  one  heart  of  the  three  sisters.  I  once  asked  Charlotte — 
we  were  talking  about  the  description  of  Lowood  school,  and 
ehe  was  saying  that  she  was  not  sure  whether  she  should  have 
written  it,  if  she  had  been  aware  how  instantaneously  it  would 
have  been  identified  with  Cowan  Bridge — whether  the  popu- 
larity to  which  the  novel  attained  had  taken  her  by  surprise, 


THE    SUCCESSFUL   AUTIIOK   AT   HOME.  29 

iSlie  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  said  :  "  I  believed  that  what 
had  impressed  me  so  forcibly  when  I  wrote  it,  must  make  a 
strong  impression  on  any  one  who  read  it.  I  was  not  sur- 
prised at  those  who  read  *  Jane  Eyre  '  being  deeply  interested 
in  it ;  but  I  hardly  expected  that  a  book  by  an  unknown  au- 
thor could  find  readers." 

The  sisters  had  kept  the  knowledge  of  their  literary  ven- 
tures from  their  father,  fearing  to  increase  their  own  anxieties 
and  disappointment  by  witnessing  his ;  for  he  took  an  acute 
interest  in  all  that  befell  his  children,  and  his  own  tendency 
had  been  towards  literature  in  the  days  when  he  was  young 
and  hopeful.  It  was  true  he  did  not  much  manifest  his  feel- 
ings in  words ;  he  would  have  thought  that  he  was  prepared 
for  disappointment  as  the  lot  of  man,  and  that  he  could  have 
met  it  with  stoicism ;  but  words  are  poor  and  tardy  inter- 
preters of  feelings  to  those  who  love  one  another,  and  his 
daughters  knew  how  he  would  have  borne  ill-success  worse  for 
them  than  for  himself.  So  they  did  not  tell  him  what  they 
were  undertaking.  He  says  now  that  he  suspected  it  all 
along,  but  his  suspicions  could  take  no  exact  form,  as  all  he 
was  certain  of  was,  that  his  children  were  perpetually  writing 
— and  not  writing  letters.  We  have  seen  how  the  commu- 
nications from  their  publishers  were  received  "  under  cover 
to  Miss  Bronte."  Once,  Charlotte  told  me,  they  overheard 
the  postman  meeting  Mr.  Bronte,  as  the  latter  was  leaving 
the  house,  and  inquiring  from  the  parson  where  one  Currer 
Bell  could  be  living,  to  which  Mr.  Bronte  replied  that  there 
was  no  such  person  in  the  parish.  This  must  have  been  the 
misadventure  to  which  Miss  Bronte  alludes  in  the  beginning 
of  her  correspondence  with  Mr.  Aylott. 

Now,  however,  when  the  demand  for  the  work  had  assured 
success  to  "  Jane  Eyre,"  her  sisters  urged  Charlotte  to  tell 
their  father  of  its  publication.  She  accordingly  went  into  his 
study  one  afternoon  after  his  early  dinner,  carrying  with  her 


30  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

a  copy  of  the  book,  and  one  or  two  reviews,  taking  caro  to 
include  a  notice  adverse  to  it. 

She  informed  me  that  something  like  the  following  con- 
versation took  place  between  her  and  him.  (I  wrote  down 
her  words  the  day  after  I  heard  them ;  and  I  am  pretty  sure 
they  are  accurate.) 

"  Papa,  IVe  been  writing  a  book  '^ 

"  Have  you,  my  dear  ?  " 

*^  Yes,  and  I  want  you  to  read  it." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  will  try  my  eyes  too  much." 

"  But  it  is  not  in  manuscript :  it  is  printed." 

"  My  dear  !  youVe  never  thought  of  the  expense  it  will 
be  !  It  will  be  almost  sure  to  be  a  loss,  for  how  can  you  get 
a  book  sold  ?     No  one  knows  you  or  your  name." 

"  But,  papa,  I  don't  think  it  will  be  a  loss ;  no  more  will 
you,  if  you  will  let  me  read  you  a  review  or  two,  and  tell  you 
more  about  it." 

So  she  sate  down  and  read  some  of  the  reviews  to  her 
father  ;  and  then,  giving  him  the  copy  of  "  Jane  Eyre  "  that 
she  intended  for  him,  she  left  him  to  read  it.  When  he  came 
in  to  tea,  he  said,  "Girls,  do  you  know  Charlotte  has  been  writ- 
ing a  book,  and  it  is  much  better  than  likely  ?" 

But  while  the  existence  of  Currer  Bell,  the  author,  was 
like  a  piece  of  a  dream  to  the  quiet  inhabitants  of  Haworth 
Parsonage,  who  went  on  with  their  uniform  household  life, — 
their  cares  for  their  brother  being  its  only  variety, — the  whole 
reading- world  of  England  was  in  a  ferment  to  discover  the 
unknown  author.  Even  the  publi.ohers  of  "  Jane  Eyre  "  were 
ignorant  whether  Currer  Bell  was  a  real  or  an  assumed  name, 
— whether  it  belonged  to  a  man  or  a  woman.  In  every  town 
people  sought  out  the  list  of  their  friends  and  acquaintances, 
and  turned  away  in  disappointment.  No  one  they  knew  had 
genius  enough  to  be  the  author.  Every  little  incident  men- 
tioned in  the  book  was  turned  this  way  and  that  to  answer, 


CUEEER   BELL   A   MYSTERY.  31 

if  possible,  the  jnuch-vexed  question  of  sex.  All  in  vain. 
People  were  content  to  relax  their  exertions  to  satisfy  their 
curiosity,  and  simply  to  sit  down  and  greatly  admire. 

I  am  not  going  to  write  an  analysis  of  a  book  with  which 
every  one  who  reads  this  biography  is  sure  to  be  acquainted ; 
much  less  a  criticism  upon  a  work,  which  the  great  flood  of 
public  opinion  has  lifted  up  from  the  obscurity  in  which  it 
first  appeared,  and  laid  high  and  safe  on  the  everlasting  hills 
of  fame. 

Before  me  lies  a  packet  of  extracts  from  newspapers  and 
periodicals,  which  Mr.  Bronte  has  sent  me.  It  is  touching 
to  look  them  over,  and  see  how  there  is  hardly  any  notice, 
however  short  and  clumsily- worded,  in  any  obscure  provincial 
paper,  but  what  has  been  cut  out  and  carefully  ticketed  with 
its  date  by  the  poor,  bereaved  father, — so  proud  when  he  first 
read  them — so  desolate  now.  For  one  and  all  are  full  of 
praise  of  this  great,  unknown  genius,  which  suddenly  ap- 
peared amongst  us.  Conjecture  as  to  the  authorship  ran 
about  like  wild-fire.  People  in  London,  smooth  and  polished 
as  the  Athenians  of  old,  and  like  them  "  spending  their  time 
in  nothing  else,  but  either  to  tell  or  to  hear  some  new  thing," 
were  astonished  and  delighted  to  find  that,  a  fresh  sensation,  a 
new  pleasure,  was  in  reserve  for  them  in  the  uprising  of  an  au- 
thor capable  of  depicting  with  accurate  and  Titanic  power  the 
strong,  self-reliant,  racy,  and  individual  characters  which  were 
not,  after  all,  extinct  species,  but  lingered  still  in  existence  in 
the  North.  They  thought  that  there  was  some  exaggeration 
mixed  with  the  peculiar  force  of  delineation.  Those  nearer  to 
the  spot,  where  the  scene  of  the  story  was  apparently  laid,  were 
sure  from  the  very  truth  and  accuracy  of  the  writing,  that  the 
writer  was  no  Southeron ;  for  though  "  dark,  and  cold,  and 
rugged  is  the  North,"  the  old  strength  of  the  Scandinavian 
races  yet  abides  there,  and  glowed  out  in  every  character  de* 


S2  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

picted  iu  "  Jane  Eyre."  Fartlier  than  tlils,  curiosity,  both 
honourable  and  dishonourable,  was  at  fault. 

When  the  second  edition  appeared,  in  the  January  of  the 
following  year,  with  the  dedication  to  Mr.  Thackeray,  people 
looked  at  each  other,  and  wondered  afresh.  But  Currer  Bell 
knew  no  more  of  William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  as  an  indi- 
vidual man — of  his  life,  age,  fortunes  or  circumstances — than 
she  did  of  those  of  Mr.  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh.  The  one 
had  placed  his  name  as  author  upon  the  title-page  of  "  Vanity 
Fair,"  the  other  had  not.  She  was  thankful  for  the  opportu- 
nity of  expressing  her  high  admiration  of  a  writer,  whom,  as 
she  says,  she  regarded  "  as  the  social  regenerator  of  his  day — 
as  the  very  master  of  that  working  corps  who  would  restore 

to  rectitude  the  warped  state  of  things His  wit 

is  bright,  his  humour  attractive,  but  both  bear  the  same 
relation  to  his  serious  genius,  that  the  mere  lambent  sheet- 
lightning,  playing  under  the  edge  of  the  summer  cloud,  does 
to  the  electric  death-spark  hid  in  its  womb." 

Anne  Bronte  had  been  more  than  usually  delicate  all  the 
summer,  and  her  sensitive  spirit  had  been  deeply  affected  by 
the  great  anxiety  of  her  home.  But  now  that  "  Jane  Eyre  " 
gave  such  indications  of  success,  Charlotte  began  to  plan 
schemes  of  future  pleasure, — perhaps  relaxation  from  care, 
would  be  the  more  correct  expression, — for  their  darling 
younger  sister,  the  "  little  one  "  of  the  household.  But,  al- 
though Anne  was  cheered  for  a  time  by  Charlotte's  success, 
the  fact  was,  that  neither  her  spirits  nor  her  bodily  strength 
were  such  as  to  incline  her  to  much  active  exertion,  and  she 
led  far  too  sedentary  a  life,  continually  stooping,  either  over 
her  book,  or  work,  or  at  her  desk.  "  It  is  with  difficulty," 
writes  her  sister,  "  that  we  can  prevail  upon  her  to  take  a 
walk,  or  induce  her  to  converse.  I  look  forward  to  next 
isummer  with  the  confident  intention  that  she  shall,  if  possible, 
make  at  least  a  brief  sojourn  at  the  sea-side."     In  this  same- 


HER   COllRESPONDENCE    WITH   MR.    LEWES.  33 

letter,  is  a  sentence,  telling  how  dearly  home,  even  with  ka 
present  terrible  drawback,  lay  at  the  roots  of  her  heart ,  but 
it  is  too  much  blended  with  reference  to  the  affairs  of  others, 
to  bear  quotation. 

Any  author  of  a  successful  novel  is  liable  to  an  inroad  of 
letters  from  unknown  readers,  containing  commendation — 
sometimes  of  so  fulsome  and  indiscriminating  a  character,  as 
to  remind  the  recipient  of  Dr.  Johnson's  famous  speech  to 
one  who  offered  presumptuous  and  injudicious  praise — some- 
times saying  merely  a  few  words,  which  have  power  to  stir 
the  heart  "  as  with  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,"  and  in  the  high 
humility  they  excite,  to  call  forth  strong  resolutions  to  make 
all  future  efforts  worthy  of  such  praise ;  and  occasionally 
containing  that  true  appreciation  of  both  merits  and  demerits, 
together  with  the  sources  of  each,  which  forms  the  very 
criticism  and  help  for  which  an  inexperienced  writer  thirsts. 
Of  each  of  these  kinds  of  communication,  Currer  Bell 
received  her  full  share ;  and  her  warm  heart,  and  true  sense 
and  high  standard  of  what  she  aimed  at,  affixed  to  each  its 
true  value.  Among  other  letters  of  hers,  some  to  Mr.  Gr.  H. 
Lewes  have  been  kindly  placed  by  him  at  my  service ;  and 
as  I  know  Miss  Bronte  highly  prized  his  letters  of  encour- 
agement and  advice,  I  shall  give  extracts  from  her  replies, 
as  their  dates  occur,  because  they  will  indicate  the  kind  of 
criticism  she  valued,  and  also  because  throughout,  in  anger^ 
as  in  agreement  and  harmony,  they  show  her  character,  un- 
blinded  by  any  self-flattery,  full  of  clear-sighted  modesty  as 
to  what  she  really  did  well,  and  what  she  failed  in,  grateful 
for  friendly  interest,  and  only  sore  and  irritable  when  the 
question  of  sex  in  authorship  was,  as  she  thought,  roughly  or 
unfairly  treated.  As  to  the  rest,  the  letters  speak  for  them« 
selves,  to  those  who  know  how  to  listen,  far  better  than  I  can 
interpret  their  meaning  into  my  poorer  and  weaker  words. 
Mr.  Lewes  has  politely  sent  me  the  following  explanation  of 
VOL.  II. — 2"^ 


34  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

that  letter  of  his,  to  which  the  succeeding  one  of  Miss  BrontS 
is  a  reply. 

^'  When  ^  Jane  Eyre '  first  appeared,  the  publishers  cour- 
teously sent  me  a  copy.  The  enthusiasm  with  which  I  read 
it,  made  me  go  down  to  Mr.  Parker,  and  propose  to  write  a 
review  of  it  for  ^  Frazer's  Magazine.'  He  would  not  consent 
to  an  unknown  novel — for  the  papers  had  not  yet  declared 
themselves — receiving  such  importance,  but  thought  it  might 
make  one  on  Becent  Novels  :  English  and  French — wliich 
appeared  in  Frazer^  December^  1847.  Meanwhile  I  had 
written  to  Miss  Bronte  to  tell  her  the  delight  with  which 
her  book  filled  me  ;  and  seemed  to  have  ^  sermonized '  her, 
to  judge  from  her  reply. 

TO  G.  II.  LEWES,  ESQ. 

^'Nov.  6th,  1847. 

"  Dear  Sir, — Your  letter  reached  me  yesterday ;  I  beg 
to  assure  you,  that  I  appreciate  fully  the  intention  with 
which  it  was  written,  and  I  thank  you  sincerely,  both  for  its 
cheering  commendation  and  valuable  advice. 

"  You  warn  me  to  beware  of  melodrama,  and  you  exhort 
me  to  adhere  to  the  real.  When  I  first  began  to  write,  so 
impressed  was  1  with  the  truth  of  the  principles  you  advo- 
cate, that  I  determined  to  take  Nature  and  Truth  as  my 
sole  guides,  and  to  follow  in  their  very  footprints ;  I  re- 
strained imagination,  eschewed  romance,  repressed  excite- 
ment; over-bright  colouring,  too,  I  avoided,  and  sought  to 
produce  something  which  should  be  soft,  grave,  and  true. 

"  My  work  (a  tale  in  one  volume)  being  completed,  I  of- 
fered it  to  a  publisher.  He  said  it  was  original,  faithful  to 
nature,  but  he  did  not  feel  warranted  in  accepting  it ;  such 
a  work  would  not  sell.  I  tried  six  publishers  in  succession , 
they  all  ti:)ld  me  it  was  deficient  in  *  startling  incident '  and 


HER   CORRESPONDENCE   WITH   MR.    LEWES.  35 

thrilling  excitement,'  that  it  would  never  suit  tlie  circulat- 
ing libraries,  and,  as  it  was  on  those  libraries  the  success  of 
works  of  fiction  mainly  depended,  they  could  not  undertake 
to  publish  what  would  be  overlooked  there. 

"  ^  Jane  Eyre  '  was  rather  objected  to  at  first,  on  the  same 
grounds,  but  finally  found  acceptance. 

"  I  mention  this  to  you,  not  with  a  view  of  pleading  ex 
emption  from  censure,  but  in  order  to  direct  your  attention 
to  the  root  of  certain  literary  evils.  If,  in  your  forthcom- 
ing article  in  *  Frazer,'  you  would  bestow  a  few  words  of  en- 
lightenment on  the  public  who  support  the  circulating  libra- 
ries, you  might,  with  your  powers,  do  some  good. 

"  You  advise  me,  too,  not  to  stray  far  from  the  ground  of 
experience,  as  I  become  weak  when  I  enter  the  region  of  fic- 
tion ;  and  you  say,  *  real  experience  is  perennially  interest- 
ing, and  to  all  men.' 

"  I  feel  that  this  also  is  true ;  but,  dear  Sir,  is  not  the 
real  experience  of  each  individual  very  limited  ?  And,  if  a 
writer  dwells  upon  that  solely  or  principally,  is  he  not  in 
danger  of  repeating  himself,  and  also  of  becoming  an  egotist  ? 
Then,  too,  imagination  is  a  strong,  restless  faculty,  which 
claims  to  be  heard  and  exercised  :  are  we  to  be  quite  deaf  to 
her  cry,  and  insensate  to  her  struggles  ?  When  she  shows 
us  bright  pictures,  are  we  never  to  look  at  them  and  try  to 
reproduce  them  ?  And  when  she  is  eloquent,  and  speaks  ra- 
pidly and  urgently  in  our  ear,  are  we  not  to  write  to  her  dic- 
tation? 

"  I  shall  anxiously  search  the  next  number  of  ^  Frazer  ' 
for  your  opinions  on  these  points. — Believe  me,  dear  Sir, 
yours  gratefully, 

"  C.  Bell." 

But  while  gratified  by  appreciation  as  an  autli^r,  she  was 
cautious  as  to  the  person  from  whom,  she  received  it,  for 


36  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BKONTE. 

much  of  the  value  of  the  praise  depended  on  the  sincerity 
and  capability  of  the  person  rendering  it.  Accordingly,  she 
applied  to  Mr.  Williams  (a  gentleman  connected  with  her 
publisher's  firm)  for  information  as  to  who  and  what  Mr. 
Lewes  was.  Her  reply,  after  she  had  learnt  something  of 
the  character  of  her  future  critic,  and  while  awaiting  his 
criticism^  must  not  be  omitted.  Besides  the  reference  to 
him,  it  contains  some  amusing  allusions  to  the  perplexity 
which  began  to  be  excited  respecting  the  "  identity  of  the 
brothers  Bell,"  and  some  notice  of  the  conduct  of  another 
publisher  towards  her  sister,  which  I  refrain  from  character- 
ising, because  I  understand  that  truth  is  considered  a  libel 
in  speaking  of  such  people. 

TO    W.   S.  WILLIAMS,  ESQ. 

"  Nov.  10th,  1817. 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  have  received  the  ^  Britannia '  and  the 
^  Sun,'  but  not  the  '  Spectator,'  which  I  rather  regret,  as  cen- 
sure, though  not  pleasant,  is  often  wholesome. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  information  regarding  Mr.  Lewes. 
I  am  glad  to  hear  that  he  is  a  clever  and  sincere  man  :  such 
being  the  case,  I  can  await  his  critical  sentence  with  forti- 
tude ;  even  if  it  goes  against  me,  I  shall  not  murmur ;  abili- 
ty and  honesty  have  a  right  to  condemn,  where  they  think 
condemnation  is  deserved.  Erom  what  you  say,  however,  I 
trust  rather  to  obtain  at  least  a  modified  approval. 

"  Your  account  of  the  various  surmises  respecting  the 
identity  of  the  brothers  Bell,  amused  me  much :  were  th« 
enigma  solved,  it  would  probably  be  found  not  worth  the 
trouble  of  solution ;  but  I  will  let  it  alone ;  it  suits  our- 
►selves  to  remain  quiet,  and  certainly  injures  no  one  else. 

"  The  reviewer  who  noticed  the  little  book  of  poems,  in 
the  ^  Dublin  Magazine,'  conjectured  that  the  soi-disani  three* 


CURKER,  ELLIS,  AND  A€TON  BELL.         37 

personages  were  in  reality  but  one,  wbo,  endowed  with  an 
unduly  prominent  organ  of  self-esteem,  and  consequently  im- 
pressed with  a  somewhat  weighty  notion  of  his  own  merits 
thought  them  too  vast  to  be  concentrated  in  a  single  indivi- 
dual, and  accordingly  divided  himself  into  three,  out  of  con 
sideration,  I  suppose,  for  the  nerves  of  the  much-to-be-astound- 
ed public  !  This  was  an  ingenious  thought  in  the  reviewer, — 
very  original  and  striking,  but  not  accurate.     We  are  three. 

"  A  prose  work,  by  Ellis  and  Acton,  will  soon  appear:  it 
should  have  been  out,  indeed,  long  since;  for  the  first  proof- 
sheets  were  already  in  the  press  at  the  commencement  of 
last   August,   before  Currer  Bell  had   placed  the   MS.  of 

'  Jane  Eyre  '  in  your  hands.     Mr. ,  however,  does  not 

do  business  like  Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder ;  a  difierent  spirit 

seems  to  preside  at Street,  to  that  which  guides  the 

helm  at  65,  Cornhill My  relations  have  suf- 
fered from  exhausting  delay  and  procrastination,  while  I  have 
to  acknowledge  the  benefits  of  a  management  at  once  busi- 
ness-like and  gentlemanlike,  energetic  and  considerate. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  if  Mr. often  acts  as  he  hai 

done  to  my  relations,  or  whether  this  is  an  exceptional  in- 
stance of  his  method.  Do  you  know,  and  can  you  tell  mc 
anything  about  him  ?  You  must  excuse  me  for  going  to 
the  point  at  once,  when  I  want  to  learn  anything :  if  ray 
questions  are  importunate,  you  are,  of  course,  at  liberty  tc 
decline  answering  them. — I  am,  yours  respectfully, 

''  C.  Bell." 


TO    G.    II.    LEWES,    ESQ. 

*'  Nov.  22nd,  1847. 
*'  Dear  Sir, — I  have  now  read  *  Ranthorpe.'     I  could  not 
get  it  till  a  day  or  two  ago ;  but  I  have  got  it  and  read  it  ai 
last;  and  in  reading  '  Eanthorpe,'  I  have   read  a  new  book, 


38  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BRONXi^. 

— ^not  a  reprint — not  a  reflection  of  any  other  book,  but  a 
new  hook. 

"  I  did  not  know  such  books  were  written  now.  It  is 
very  different  to  any  of  the  popular  works  of  fiction ;  it  fills 
the  mind  with  fresh  knowledge.  Your  experience  and  your 
convictions  are  made  the  reader's  and  to  an  author,  at  least, 
they  have  a  value  and  an  interest  quite  unusual.  I  await 
your  criticism  on  '  Jane  Eyre '  now  with  other  sentiments 
than  I  entertained  before  the  perusal  of  ^  Kanthorpe.' 

"  You  were  a  stranger  to  me.  I  did  not  particularly  re- 
spect you.  I  did  not  feel  that  your  praise  or  blame  would 
have  any  special  weight.  I  knew  little  of  your  right  to  con- 
demn or  approve.     Noiv  I  am  informed  on  these  points. 

"  You  will  be  severe  ;  your  last  letter  taught  me  as  much. 
Well !  I  shall  try  to  extract  good  out  of  your  severity  :  and 
besides,  though  I  am  now  sure  you  are  a  just,  discriminating 
man,  yet,  being  mortal,  you  must  be  fallible  ;  and  if  any  part 
of  your  censure  galls  me  too  keenly  to  the  quick — ogives  me 
deadly  pain — I  shall  for  the  present  disbelieve  it,  and  put  it 
quite  aside,  till  such  time  as  I  feel  able  to  receive  it  without 
torture. — I  am,  dear  Sir,  yours  very  respectfully, 

''  C.  Bell." 

In  December,  1847,  ^^  Wuthering  Heights  "  and  ^^  Agnes 
Grey  *'  appeared.  The  first-named  of  these  stories  has  re- 
volted many  readers  by  the  power  with  which  wicked  and 
exceptional  characters  are  depicted.  Others,  again,  have  felt 
the  attraction  of  remarkable  genius,  even  when  displayed  on 
grim  and  terrible  criminals.  Miss  Bronte  herself  says,  with 
regard  to  this  tale,  * 'Where  delineation  of  human  character 
is  concerned,  the  case  is  different.  I  am  bound  to  avow  that 
she  had  scarcely  more  practical  knowledge  of  the  peasantry 
amongst  whom  she  lived,  than  a  nun  has  of  the  country- 
people  that  pass  her  convent  gates.     My  sister's  disposition 


"  WUTIIERING   heights"    AND    ITS   AUTHOR.  39 

was  not  naturally  gregarious  :  circumstances  favoured  and 
fostered  her  tendency  to  seclusion  ;  except  to  go  to  church, 
or  take  a  walk  on  the  hills,  she  rarely  crossed  the  threshold 
of  home.  Though  the  feeling  for  the  people  around  her  was 
benevolent,  intercourse  with  them  she  never  sought,  nor, 
with  very  few  exceptions,  ever  experienced ;  and  yet  she 
knew  them,  knew  their  ways,  their  language,  and  their  family 
histories ;  she  could  hear  of  them  with  interest,  and  talk  of 
them  with  detail  minute,  graphic,  and  accurate ;  but  with 
them  she  rarely  exchanged  a  word.  Hence  it  ensued,  that 
what  her  mind  has  gathered  of  the  real  concerning  them,  was 
too  exclusively  confined  to  those  tragic  and  terrible  traits, 
of  which,  in  listening  to  the  secret  annals  of  every  rude  vici- 
nage, the  memory  is  sometimes  compelled  to  receive  the  im- 
press. Her  imagination,  which  was  a  spirit  more  sombre 
than  sunny — more  powerful  than  sportive — ^found  in  such 
.raits  material  whence  it  wrought  creations  like  HeathclifFe, 
like  Earnshaw,  like  Catharine.  Having  formed  these  beings, 
she  did  not  know  what  she  had  done.  If  the  auditor  of  her 
work,  when  read  in  manuscript,  shuddered  under  the  grind- 
ing influence  of  natures  so  relentless  and  implacable — of 
spirits  so  lost  and  fallen  ;  if  it  was  complained  that  the  mere 
hearing  of  certain  vivid  and  fearful  scenes  banished  sleep  by 
night,  and  disturbed  mental  peace  by  day,  Ellis  Bell  would 
wonder  what  was  meant,  and  suspect  the  complainant  of  af- 
fectation. Had  she  but  lived,  her  mind  would  of  itself  have 
grown  like  a  strong  tree — loftier,  straighter,  wider-spreading 
— and  its  matured  fruits  would  have  attained  a  mellower  ripe- 
ness and  sunnier  bloom ;  but  on  that  mind  time  and  expe- 
rience alone  could  work ;  to  the  influence  of  other  intellects 
she  was  not  amenable." 

Whether  justly  or  unjustly,  the  productions  of  the  two 
younger  Miss  Brontes  were  not  received  with  much  favour 
at  the  time  of  their  publication.     "  Critics  failed  to  do  them 


iO  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

justice.  The  immature,  but  very  real,  powers  revealed  ii; 
*Wuthering  Heights,' were  scarcely  recognized ;  its  import 
and  nature  were  misunderstood ;  the  identity  of  its  author 
was  misrepresented  :  it  was  said  that  this  was  an  earlier  and 
ruder  attempt  of  the  same  pen  which  had  produced  '  Jane 
Eyre.'  "...."  Unjust  and  grievous  error  !  We  laughed 
at  it  at  first,  but  I  deeply  lament  it  now." 

Henceforward  Charlotte  Bronte's  existence  becomes  di- 
vided into  two  parallel  currents — her  life  as  Currer  Bell,  the 
author ;  her  life  as  Charlotte  Bronte,  the  woman.  There 
were  separate  duties  belonging  to  each  character — not  op- 
posing each  other ;  not  impossible,  but  difl&cult  to  be  recon- 
ciled. When  a  man  becomes  an  author,  it  is  probably  merely 
a  change  of  employment  to  him.  He  takes  a  portion  of  that 
time  which  has  hitherto  been  devoted  to  some  other  study  or 
pursuit ;  he  gives  up  something  of  the  legal  or  medical  pro- 
fession, in  which  he  has  hitherto  endeavoured  to  serve  others, 
or  relinquishes  part  of  the  trade  or  business  by  which  he  has 
been  striving  to  gain  a  livelihood ;  and  another  merchant,  or 
lawyer,  or  doctor,  steps  into  his  vacant  place,  and  probably 
does  as  well  as  he.  Btit  no  other  can  take  up  the  quiet, 
regular  duties  of  the  daughter,  the  wife,  or  the  mother,  as 
well  as  she  whom  God  has  appointed  to  fill  that  particular 
place  :  a  woman's  principal  work  in  life  is  hardly  left  to  her 
own  choice ;  nor  can  she  drop  the  domestic  charges  devolv- 
ing on  her  as  an  individual,  for  the  exercise  of  the  most 
splendid  talents  that  were  ever  bestowed.  And  yet  she  must 
not  shrink  from  the  extra  responsibility  implied  by  the  very 
fact  of  her  possessing  such  talents.  She  must  not  hide  her 
gift  in  a  napkin ;  it  was  meant  for  the  use  and  service  of 
others.  In  an  humble  and  faithful  spirit  must  she  labor  to 
do  what  is  not  impossible,  or  God  would  not  have  set  her  to 
do  it. 

I  put  into  words  what  Charlotte  Bronto  put  into  actions 


DOMESTIC   ANXIETIES.  41 

The  year  1848  opened  with  sad  domestic  distress.  It  ia 
necessary,  however  painful,  to  remind  the  reader  constantly 
of  what  was  always  present  to  the  hearts  of  father  and  sisters 
at  this  time.  It  is  weJl  that  the  thoughtless  critics,  who 
spoke  of  the  sad  and  gloomy  views  of  life  presented  by  the 
Brontes  in  their  tales,  should  know  how  such  words  were 
wrung  out  of  them  by  the  living  recollection  of  the  long 
agony  they  suffered.  It  is  well,  too,  that  they  who  have  ob- 
jected to  the  representation  of  coarseness  and  shrank  from 
it  with  repugnance,  as  if  such  conceptions  arose  out  of  the 
writers,  should  learn,  that,  not  from  the  imagination — ^not 
from  internal  conception — but  from  the  hard  cruel  facts, 
pressed  down,  by  external  life,  upon  their  very  senses,  for 
long  months  and  years  together,  did  they  write  out  what 
they  saw,  obeying  the  stern  dictates  of  their  consciences. 
They  might  be  mistaken.  They  might  err  in  writing  at  all, 
when  their  afflictions  were  so  great  that  they  could  not  write 
otherwise  than  they  did  of  life.  It  is  possible  that  it  would 
have  been  better  to  have  described  only  good  and  pleasant 
people,  doing  only  good  and  pleasant  things  (in  which  case 
they  could  hardly  have  written  at  any  time) :  all  I  say  is, 
that  never,  I  believe,  did  women,  possessed  of  such  wonder- 
ful gifts,  exercise  them  with  a  fuller  feeling  of  responsibility 
for  their  use.  As  to  mistakes,  they  stand  now — as  authors 
as  well  as  women — before  the  judgment-seat  of  God. 

'*  Jan.  11th,  1848. 
^^We  have  not  been  very  comfortable  here  at  home 
lately.  Branwell  has,  by  some  means,  contrived  to  get 
more  money  from  the  old  quarter,  and  has  led  us  a  sad 
life.  .  .  .  Papa  is  harassed  day  and  night ;  we  have  little 
peace ;  he  is  always  sick ;  has  two  or  three  times  fallen 
down  in  fits ;  what  will  be  the  ultimate  end,  God  knows. 
But   who  is  without  their   drawback,  their  scourge,  their 


i2  LITE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

skeleton  behind  the  curtain  ?     It  remains  only  to  do  one's 
best,  and  endure  with  patience  what  God  sends. '^ 

I  suppose  that  she  had  read  Mr.  Lewes'  review  on  "  Re- 
cent Novels,"  when  it  appeared  in  the  December  of  the  last 
year,  but  I  find  no  allusion  to  it  till  she  writes  to  him  on 
January  12th,  1848. 

•'  Dear  Sir, — I  thank  you  then  sincerely  for  your  gen- 
erous review ;  and  it  is  with  the  sense  of  double  content  I 
express  my  gratitude,  because  I  am  now  sure  the  tribute  is 
not  superfluous  or  obtrusive.  You  were  not  severe  on  ^  Jane 
Eyre; '  you  were  very  lenient.  I  am  glad  you  told  me  my 
faults  plainly  in  private,  for  in  your  public  notice  you 
touch  on  them  so  lightly,  I  should  peihaps  have  passed  them 
over,  thus  indicated,  with  too  little  reflection. 

"  I  mean  to  observe  your  warning  about  being  careful 
how  I  undertake  new  works;  my  stock  of  materials  is  not 
abundant,  but  very  slender ;  and,  besides,  neither  my  expe- 
rience, my  acquirements,  nor  my  powers,,  are  sufficiently 
varied  to  justify  my  ever  becoming  a  frequent  writer.  I  tell 
you  this,  because  your  article  in  ^  Frazer  '  left  in  me  an  un- 
easy impression  that  you  were  disposed  to  think  better  of  the 
author  of  ^  Jane  Eyre '  than  that  individual  deserved ;  and 
I  would  rather  you  had  a  correct  than  a  flattering  opinion  of 
me,  even  though  I  should  never  see  you. 

"  If  I  ever  do  write  another  book,  I  think  I  will  have 
nothing  of  what  you  call  ^  melodrama ;  '  I  tJiink  so,  but  I 
am  not  sure.  I  think,  too,  I  will  endeavour  to  follow  the 
counsel  which  shines  out  of  Miss  Austen's  ^  mild  eyes,'  ^  to 
finish  more  and  be  more  subdued ; '  but  neither  am  I  sure 
of  that.  When  authors  write  best,  or,  at  least,  when  they 
write  most  fluently,  an  influence  seems  to  waken  in  them^ 
which  becomes  their  master — which  will  have  its  own  way — 


CORRESPONDENCE   WITH   MR.    LEWES.  43 

putting  out  of  view  all  behests  but  its  own,  dictating  certain 
words,  and  insisting  on  tlieir  being  used,  whether  vehement 
or  measured  in  their  nature ;  new-moulding  characters,  giv- 
ing unthought  of  turns  to  incidents,  rejecting  carefully- 
elaborated  old  ideas,  and  suddenly  creating  and  adopting 
new  ones. 

"  Is  it  not  so  ?  And  should  we  try  to  counteract  this 
influence  ?     Can  we  indeed  counteract  it  ? 

^'  I  am  glad  that  another  work  of  yours  will  soon  ap- 
pear;  most  curious  shall  I  be  to  see  whether  you  will  write 
up  to  your  own  principles,  and  work  out  your  own  theories. 
You  did  not  do  it  altogether  in  ^  Ranthorpe  ' — at  least  not 
in  the  latter  part ;  but  the  first  portion  was,  I  think,  nearly 
without  fault ;  then  it  had  a  pith,  truth,  significance  in  it, 
which  gave  the  book  sterling  value ;  but  to  write  so,  one 
must  have  seen  and  known  a  great  deal,  and  I  have  seen  and 
known  very  little. 

"Why  do  you  like  Miss  Austen  so  very  much?  I  am 
puzzled  on  that  point.  What  induced  you  to  say  that  you 
would  have  rather  written  *  Pride  and  Prejudice,'  or  '  Tom 
Jones,'  than  any  of  the  Waverley  Novels  ? 

"  I  had  not  seen  *  Pride  and  Prejudice  '  till  I  read  that 
sentence  of  yours,  and  then  I  got  the  book.  And  what  did 
I  find  ?  An  accurate,  daguerreotyped  portrait  of  a  com- 
monplace face;  a  carefully-fenced,  high-cultivated  garden, 
with  neat  borders  and  delicate  flowers ;  but  no  glance  of  a 
bright,  vivid  physiognomy,  no  open  country,  no  fresh  air,  no 
blue  hill,  no  bonny  beck.  I  should  hardly  like  to  live  with 
her  ladies  and  gentlemen,  in  their  elegant  but  confined 
houses.  These  observations  will  probably  irritate  you,  but  I 
shall  run  the  risk. 

"  Now  I  can  understand  admiration  of  George  Sand  ; 
for  though  I  never  saw  any  of  her  works  which  I  admired 
throughout  (even  *  Consuelo,'  which   is  the  best,  or  the  best 


44  LIFE    OF   CIIAELOTTE   BRONTE. 

tbat  I  have  read,  appears  to  me  to  couple  strange  extrava 
gance  with  wondrous  excellence),  yet  she  has  a  grasp  oi 
mind,  which,  if  I  cannot  fully  comprehend,  I  can  very 
deeply  respect ;  she  is  sagacious  and  profound  ; — Miss  Austen 
is  only  shrewd  and  observant. 

"  Am  I  wrong — or,  were  you  hasty  in  what  you  said  ? 
If  you  have  time,  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  further  on  this 
subject ;  if  not,  or  if  you  think  the  questions  frivolous,  do 
not  trouble  yourself  to  reply. 

T  am,  yours  respectfully, 

''  C.  Bell." 


TO   G.  IL  LEWES,   ESQ. 

**  Jan.  18ih,  1848. 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  must  write  one  more  note,  though  I  had 
not  intended  to  trouble  you  again  so  soon.  I  have  to  agree 
with  you,  and  to  differ  from  you. 

"  You  correct  my  crude  remarks  on  the  subject  of  the 
'  influence ' ;  well,  I  accept  your  definition  of  what  the  effects 
of  that  influence  should  be ;  I  recognise  the  wisdom  of  your 

rules  for  its  regulation 

;  "  What  a  strange  lecture  comes  next  in  your  letter  !  You 
say  I  must  familiarise  my  mind  with  the  fact,  that  *  Miss 
Austen  is  not  a  poetess,  has  no  "  sentiment "  (you  scornfully 
enclose  the  word  in  inverted  commas),  no  eloquence,  none  of 
the  ravishing  enthusiasm  of  poetry,' — and  then  you  add,  I 
must  *  learn  to  acknowledge  her  as  one  of  the  greatest  artists, 
of  the  greatest  painters  of  human  character^  and  one  of  the 
writers  with  the  nicest  sense  of  means  to  an  end  that  ever 
lived.'' 

*^  The  last  point  only  will  I  ever  acknowledge. 

"  Can  there  be  a  great  artist  without  poetry  ? 

"  What  I  call — what  I  will  bend  to,  as  a  great  artist  then 


COERESPONDENCE   WITH   MR.    LEWES.  45 

— cannot  be  destitute  of  the  divine  gift.  But  by  poetry^  I 
am  sure,  you  understand  something  different  to  what  I  do, 
as  you  do  by  ^  sentiment.'  It  is  poetry^  as  I  comprehend 
the  word,  which  elevates  that  masculine  George  Sand,  and 
makes  out  of  something  coarse,  something  Godlike.  It  is 
sentiment,'  in  my  sense  of  the  term — sentiment  jealously 
hidden,  but  genuine,  which  extracts  the  venom  from  that 
formidable  Thackeray,  and  converts  what  might  be  corrosive 
poison  into  purifying  elixir. 

*  *  If  Thackeray  did  not  cherish  in  his  large  heart  deep 
feeling  for  his  kind,  he  would  delight  to  exterminate ;  as  it 
is,  I  believe,  he  wishes  only  to  reform.  Miss  Austen  being, 
as  you  say,  without  *  sentiment,'  without  jpoetry^  maybe  is 
sensible,  real  (more  real  than  true)^  but  she  cannot  be  greai, 
"I  submit  to  your  anger,  which  I  have  now  excited  (for 
have  I  not  questioned  the  perfection  of  your  darling  ?) ;  the 
storm  may  pass  over  me.  Nevertheless,  I  will  when  I  can 
(I  do  not  know  when  that  will  be,  as  I  have  no  access  to  a 
circulating  library),  diligently  peruse  all  Miss  Austen's  works, 

as  you  recommend You  must  forgive  me  for 

not  always  being  able  to  think  as  you  do,  and  still  believe 
me  yours  gratefully, 

''  C.  Bell." 

I  have  hesitated  a  little,  before  inserting  the  following 
extract  from  a  letter  to  Mr.  Williams,  but  it  is  strikingly 
characteristic ;  and  the  criticism  contained  in  it  is,  from  that 
circumstance,  so  interesting  (whether  we  agree  with  it  or  not), 
that  I  have  determined  to  do  so,  though  I  thereby  displace 
the  chronological  order  of  the  letters,  in  order  to  complete 
this  portion  of  a  correspondence  which  is  very  valuable,  as 
fihowing  the  purely  intellectual  side  of  her  character. 


4:6  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

TO  W.  S.  WILLIAMS,  ESQ. 

*'  AprU  26th,  1848. 

<^  My  dear  Sir, — I  have  now  read,  ^  Eose,  Blanche,  and 
Violet,'  and  I  will  tell  you,  as  well  as  I  can,  what  I  think 
of  it.  Vv'hether  it  is  an  improvement  on  *  Eanthorpe '  I  do 
not  know,  for  I  liked  *  Ranthorpe'  much ;  but,  at  any  rate,  it 
contains  more  of  a  good  thing.  I  find  in  it  the  same  power, 
but  more  fully  developed. 

"  The  author's  character  is  seen  in  every  page,  which 
makes  the  book  interesting — far  more  interesting  than  any 
story  could  do ;  but  it  is  what  the  writer  himself  says  that 
attracts,  far  more  than  what  he  puts  into  the  mouths  of  his 
characters.  G.  H.  Lewes  is,  to  my  perception,  decidedly  the 
most  original  character  in  the  book^  ....  The  didactic 
passages  seem  to  me  the  best — far  the  best — in  the  work ; 
very  acute,  very  profound,  are  some  of  the  views  there  given, 
and  very  clearly  they  are  offered  to  the  reader.  "  He  is  a  just 
thinker  ;  he  is  a  sagacious  observer  ;  there  is  wisdom  in  his 
theory,  and,  I  doubt  not,  energy  in  his  practice.  But  why, 
then,  are  you  often  provoked  with  him  while  you  read  ? 
How  does  he  manage,  while  teaching,  to  make  his  hearer  feel 
as  if  his  business  was,  not  quietly  to  receive  the  doctrines 
propounded,  but  to  combat  them  ?  You  acknowledge  that 
he  offers  you  gems  of  pure  truth ;  why  do  you  keep  per- 
petually scrutinising  them  for  flaws  ? 

"  Mr,  Lewes,  I  divine,  with  all  his  talents  and  honesty, 
must  have  some  faults  of  manner ;  there  must  be  a  touch  too 
much  of  dogmatism;  a  dash  extra  of  confidence  in  him,  some- 
times. This  you  think  while  you  are  reading  the  book ;  but 
when  you  have  closed  it  and  laid  it  down,  and  sat  a  few  min- 
utes collecting  your  thoughts,  and  settling  your  impressions, 
you  find  the  idea  or  feeling  predomioant  in  your  mind  to  be 
pleasure  at  the  fuller  acquaintance  you  have  made  with  a  fine 


CURREE  BELL  ON  G.  H.  LEWES.  4Y 

mind  and  a  true  heart,  with  high  abilities  and  manly  prin- 
ciples. I  hope  he  will  not  be  long  ere  he  publishes  another 
book.  His  emotional  scenes  are  somewhat  too  uniformly  ve- 
hement :  would  not  a  more  subdued  style  of  treatment  often 
have  produced  a  more  masterly  effect  ?  Now  and  then  Mr. 
Lewes  takes  a  French  pen  into  his  hand,  wherein  he  differs 
from  Mr.  Thackeray,  who  always  uses  an  English  quill. 
However,  the  French  pen  does  not  far  mislead  Mr.  Lewes ; 
he  wields  it  with  British  muscles.  All  honour  to  him  foi 
the  excellent  general  tendency  of  his  book  ! 

"  He  gives  no  charming  picture  of  London  literary  so- 
ciety, and  especially  the  female  part  of  it ;  but  all  coteries, 
whether  they  be  literary,  scientific,  political,  or  religious, 
must,  it  seems  to  me,  have  a  tendency  to  change  truth  into 
affectation.  When  people  belong  to  a  clique,  they  must,  I 
suppose,  in  some  measure,  write,  talk,  think,  and  live  for  that 
clique ;  a  harassing  and  narrowing  necessity.  I  trust,  the 
press  and  the  public  show  themselves  disposed  to  give  the 
book  the  reception  it  merits ;  and  that  is  a  very  cordial  one, 
far  beyond  anything  due  to  a  Bulwer  or  D'Israeli  produc- 
tion." 

Let  us  return  from  Currer  Bell  to  Charlotte  Bronte. 
The  winter  in  Haworth  had  been  a  sickly  season.  Influenza 
had  prevailed  amongst  the  villagers,  and  where  there  was  a 
real  need  for  the  presence  of  the  clergyman's  daughters,  they 
were  never  found  wanting,  although  they  were  shy  of  bestow- 
ing mere  social  visits  on  the  parishioners.  They  had  them* 
gelves  suffered  from  the  epidemic ;  Anne  severely,  as  in  her 
case  it  had  been  attended  with  cough  and  fever  enough  to 
make  her  elder  sisters  very  anxious  about  her. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  proximity  of  the  crowded 
churchyard  rendered  the  Parsonage  unhealthy,  and  occa- 
eioned  much  illness  to  its  inmates.     Mr.  Bronte  represented 


48  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

tlie  unsanitary  state  of  Haworth  pretty  fcrcibly  to  the  Board 
of  Health ;  and,  after  the  requisite  visits  from  their  officers, 
obtained  a  recommendation  that  all  future  interments  in  the 
churchyard  should  be  forbidden,  a  new  graveyard  opened  on 
the  hill-side,  and  means  set  on  foot  for  obtaining  a  water- 
supply  to  each  house,  instead  of  the  weary,  hard-worked 
housewives  hav^ing  to  carry  every  bucketful  from  a  distance 
of  several  hundred  yards  up  a  steep  street.  But  he  was 
baffled  by  the  rate-payers;  as,  in  many  a  similar  instance, 
quantity  carried  it  against  quality,  numbers  against  intelli- 
gence. And  thus  we  find  that  illness  often  assumed  a  low 
typhoid  form  in  Haworth,  and  fevers  of  various  kinds  visited 
the  place  with  sad  frequency. 

In  February,  1848,  Louis  Philippe  was  dethroned.  The 
quick  succession  of  events  at  that  time  called  forth  the  fol- 
lowing expression  of  Miss  Bronte's  thoughts  on  the  subject, 
in  a  letter  addressed  to  Miss  Wooler,  and  dated  March  31st. 

"  I  remember  well  wishing  my  lot  had  been  cast  in  the 
troubled  times  of  the  late  war,  and  seeing  in  its  exciting 
incidents  a  kind  of  stimulating  charm,  which  it  made  my 
pulses  beat  fast  to  think  of:  I  remember  even,  I  think,  being 
a  little  impatient,  that  you  would  not  fully  sympathise  with 
my  feelings  on  those  subjects;  that  you  heard  my  aspirations 
and  speculations  very  tranquilly,  and  by  no  means  seemed  to 
think  the  flaming  swords  could  be  any  pleasant  addition  to 
Paradise.  I  have  now  outlived  youth ;  and,  though  I  dare 
not  say  that  I  have  outlived  all  its  illusions — that  the  ro- 
mance is  quite  gone  from  life — the  veil  fallen  from  truth,  and 
that  I  see  both  in  naked  reality — yet,  certainly,  many  things 
are  not  what  they  were  ten  years  ago ;  and,  amongst  the  rest, 
*  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war '  have  quite  lost  in  my 
eyes  their  fictitious  glitter.  I  have  still  no  doubt  that  the 
ehock  of  moral  earthquakes  wakens  a  vivid  sense  of  life,  both 


HER  THOUGHTS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION  OF  1848.   49 

in  nations  and  individuals ;  that  tlie  fear  of  dangers  on  a 
broad  national  scale,  diverts  men's  minds  momentarily  from 
brooding  over  small  private  perils,  and  for  the  time  gives 
them  something  like  largeness  of  views ;  but,  as  little  doubt 
have  I,  that  convulsive  revolutions  put  back  the  world  in  all 
that  is  good,  check  civilisation,  bring  the  dregs  of  society  to 
its  surface  ;  in  short,  it  appears  to  me  that  insurrections  and 
battles  are  the  acute  diseases  of  nations,  and  that  their  tend- 
ency is  to  exhaust,  by  their  violence,  the  vital  energies  of 
the  countries  where  they  occur.  That  England  may  be 
spared  the  spasms,  cramps,  and  frenzy-fits  now  contorting  the 
Continent,  and  threatening  Ireland,  I  earnestly  pray.  With 
the  French  and  Irish  I  have  no  sympathy.  With  the  Ger- 
mans and  Italians  I  think  the  case  is  different ;  as  different 
as  the  love  of  freedom  is  from  the  lust  for  license." 

Her  birthday  came  round.  She  wrote  to  the  friend  whose 
birthday  was  within  a  week  of  hers ;  wrote  the  accustomed 
letter ;  but,  reading  it  with  our  knowledge  of  what  she  had 
done,  we  perceived  the  difference  between  her  thoughts  and 
what  they  were  a  year  or  two  ago,  when  she  said  "I  have 
done  nothing."  There  must  have  been  a  modest  conscious- 
ness of  having  "  done  something  "  present  in  her  mind,  as 
she  wrote  this  year  : — 

"  I  am  now  thirty-two.  Youth  is  gone — gone, — and  will 
never  come  back  :  can't  help  it  ....  It  seems  to  me,  that 
sorrow  must  come  some  time  to  everybody,  and  those  who 
scarcely  taste  it  in  their  youth,  often  have  a  more  brimming 
and  bitter  cup  to  drain  in  after  life ;  whereas,  those  who 
exhaust  the  dregs  early,  who  drink  the  lees  before  the 
wine,  may  reasonably  hope  for  more  palatable  draughts  to 
succeed." 

The  authorship  of  "  Jane   Eyre  "   was   as   yet   a   close 
VOL.  II — 3 


50  LIFE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BRONTE 

secret  In  tlie  Bronte  family ;  not  even  this  friend,  wKo  waa 
all  but  a  sister,  knew  more  about  it  than  the  rest  of  the 
world.  She  might  conjecture,  it  is  true,  both  from  her 
knowledge  of  previous  habits,  and  from  the  suspicious  fact 

of   the  proofs  having  been  corrected  at  B ,  that  some 

literary  project  was  afoot ;  but  she  knew  nothing,  and 
wisely  said  nothing,  until  she  heard  a  report  from  others, 
that  Charlotte  Bronte  was  an  author — had  published  a 
novel !  Then  she  wrote  to  her ;  and  received  the  two  fol- 
lowing letters  ;  confirmatory  enough,  as  it  seems  to  me  now, 
in  their  very  vehemence  and  agitation  of  intended  denial,  of 
the  truth  of  the  report. 

*'April  28th,  1848. 
^'  Write  another  letter,  and  explain  that  last  note  of 
yours  distinctly.  If  your  allusions  are  to  myself,  which  I 
suppose  they  are,  understand  this, — I  have  given  no  one  a 
right  to  gossip  about  me,  and  am  not  to  be  judged  by  frivo- 
lous conjectures,  emanating  from  any  quarter  whatever. 
Let  me  know  what  you  heard,  and  from  whom  you  heard  it.'^ 

''May  3rd,  1848. 
"  All  I  can  say  to  you  about  a  certain  matter  is  this 
the  report- — if  report  there  be — and  if  the  lady,  who  seems 
to  have  been  rather  mystified,  had  not  dreamt  what  she 
fancied  had  been  told  to  her — must  have  had  its  origin  in 
some  absurd  misunderstanding.  I  have  given  no  one  a  right 
either  to  afiirm,  or  to  hint,  in  the  most  distant  manner,  that 
T  was  '  publishing' — (humbug  !)  Whoever  has  said  it — if 
any  one  has,  which  I  doubt — is  no  friend  of  mine.  Though 
twenty  books  were  ascribed  to  me,  I  should  own  none.  I 
gcout  the  idea  utterly.  Whoever,  after  I  have  distinctly  re- 
jected the  charge,  urges  it  upon  me,  will  do  an  unkind  and 
an  ill-bred  thing.     The  most  profound  obscurity  is  infinitely 


HER   EEPUDIATION   OF   AUTHOKSHIP.  51 

preferable  to  vulgar  notoriety ;  and  that  notoriety  I  neither 
seek  nor  will  have.  If  then  any  B — an,  or  G —  an,  should 
presume  to  bore  you  on  the  subject, — to  ask  you  what 
*  novel'  Miss  Bronte  has  been  'publishing,'  you  can  just 
say,  with  the  distinct  firmness  of  which  you  are  perfect 
mistress,  when  you  choose,  that  you  are  authorized  by  Misa 
Bronte  to  say,  that  she  repels  and  disowns  every  accusation 
of  the  kind.  You  may  add,  if  you  please  that  if  any  one  has 
her  confidence,  you  believe  you  have,  and  she  has  made  no 
drivelling  confessions  to  you  on  the  subject.  I  am  at  a  loss 
to  conjecture  from  what  source  this  rumour  iias  come ;  and, 
I  fear,  it  has  far  from  a  friendly  origin.  I  am  not  certain, 
however,  and  I  should  be  very  glad  if  I  could  gain  certainty. 
Should  you  hear  anything  more,  please  let  me  know.  Your 
offer  of  '  Simeon's  Life'  is  a  very  kind  one,  and  I  thank  you 
for  it.     I  dare  say  Papa  would  like  to  see  the  work  very 

much,  as  he  knew  Mr.   Simeon.     Laugh  or  scold  A 

out  of  the  publishing  notion ;  and  believe  me,  through  all 
chances  and  changes,  whether  calumniated  or  let  alone, — 
Yours  faithfully. 

'^  C.  Bronte." 

The  reasoxi  why  Miss  Bronte  was  so  anxious  to  preserve 
her  secret,  was,  I  am  told,  that  she  had  pledged  her  word  to 
her  sisters  that  it  should  not  be  revealed  through  her. 

The  dilemmas  attendant  on  the  publication  of  the  sisters' 
novels,  under  assumed  names,  were  increasing  upon  them. 
Many  critics  insisted  on  believing,  that  all  the  fictions  pub- 
ished  as  by  three  Bells  were  the  works  of  one  author,  but 
written  at  different  periods  of  his  development  and  maturity. 
No  doubt,  this  suspicion  affected  the  reception  of  the  books. 
Ever  since  the  completion  of  Anne  Bronte's  tale  of  "  Agnes 
Grey,"  she  had  been  labouring  at  a  second,  "  The  Tenant  of 
Wildfell   Hall."      It   is    little   known;    the   subject —the 


52  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONtE. 

deterioration  of  a  character,  wliose  profligacy  and  ruin  took 
their  rise  in  habits  of  intemperance,  so  slight  as  to  be  only 
considered  "  good  fellowship  " — was  painfully  discordant  to 
one  who  would  fain  have  sheltered  herself  from  all  but  peace- 
ful and  religious  ideas.  "  She  had  "  (says  her  sister  of  that 
gentle  "  little  one"),  ^^  in  the  course  of  her  life,  been  called 
on  to  contemplate  near  at  hand,  and  for  a  long  time,  the 
terrible  effects  of  talents  misused  and  faculties  abused ;  hers 
was  naturally  a  sensitive,  reserved,  and  dejected  nature ; 
what  she  saw  sunk  very  deeply  into  her  mind ;  it  did  her 
harm.  She  brooded  over  it  till  she  believed  it  to  be  a  duty 
to  reproduce  every  detail  (of  course,  with  fictitious  charac- 
ters, incidents,  and  situations),  as  a  warning  to  others.  She 
hated  her  work,  but  would  pursue  it.  When  reasoned  with 
on  the  subject,  she  regarded  such  reasonings  as  a  temptation 
to  self-indulgence.  She  must  be  honest ;  she  must  not  var- 
nish, soften,  or  conceal.  This  well-meant  resolution  brought 
on  her  misconstruction,  and  some  abuse,  which  she  bore,  as 
it  was  her  custom  to  bear  whatever  was  unpleasant,  with 
mild  steady  patience.  She  was  a  very  sincere  and  practical 
Christian,  but  the  tinge  of  religious  melancholy  communicated 
a  sad  shade  to  her  brief  blameless  life." 

In  the  June  of  this  year,  "  The  Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall  " 
was  sufficiently  near  its  completion  to  be  submitted  to  the 
person  who  had  previously  published  for  Ellis  and  Acton 
Bell. 

In  consequence  of  his  mode  of  doing  business,  considera- 
ble annoyance  was  occasioned  both  to  Miss  Bronte  and  to 
them.  The  circumstances,  as  detailed  in  a  letter  of  hers  to 
a  friend  in  New  Zealand,  were  these : — One  morning  at  the 
beginning  of  July,  a  communication  was  received  at  the  Par- 
Bonage  from  Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder,  which  disturbed  its 
quiet  inmates  not  a  little  ;  as,  though  the  matter  brought  un- 
der their  notice  was  merely  referred  to  as  one  which  affected 


CURKER  AND  ACTON  BELL  GO  TO  LONDON.     53 

their  literary  reputation,  they  conceived  it  to  have  a  bearing 
likewise  upon  their  character.  "  Jane  Eyre  "  had  had  a 
great  run  in  America,  and  a  publisher  there  had  consequently 
bid  high  for  early  sheets  of  the  next  work  by  "  Currer  Bell." 
These  Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder  had  promised  to  let  him 
have.  He  was  therefore  greatly  astonished,  and  not  well 
pleased,  to  learn  that  a  similar  agreement  had  been  entered 
into  with  another  American  house,  and  that  the  new  tale  was 
very  shortly  to  appear.  It  turned  out,  upon  inquiry,  that 
the  mistake  had  originated  in  Acton  and  Ellis  BelFs  pub- 
lisher having  assured  this  American  house  that,  to  the  best 
of  his  belief,  "  Jane  Eyre,"  "  Wuthering  Heights,"  and  "  The 
Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall "  (which  he  pronounced  superior  to 
either  of  the  other  two)  were  all  written  by  the  same  au- 
thor. 

Though  Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder  distinctly  stated  in  their 
letter  that  they  did  not  share  in  such  "  belief,"  the  sisters 
were  impatient  till  they  had  shown  its  utter  groundlessness, 
and  set  themselves  perfectly  straight.  With  rapid  decision, 
they  resolved  that  Charlotte  and  Anne  should  start  for  Lon- 
don that  very  day,  in  order  to  prove  their  separate  identity 
to  Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder,  and  demand  from  the  credulous 
publisher  his  reasons  for  a  "  belief  "  so  directly  at  vari- 
ance with  an  assurance  which  had  several  times  been  given 
to  him.  Having  arrived  at  this  determination,  they  made 
their  preparations  with  resolute  promptness.  There  were 
many  household  duties  to  be  performed  that  day ;  but  they 
were  all  got  through.  The  two  sisters  each  packed  up  a 
■'bange  of  dress  in  a  small  box,  which  they  sent  down  to 
Keighley  by  an  opportune  cart ;  and  after  early  tea,  they 
set  off  to  walk  thither — ^no  doubt  in  some  excitement ;  for, 
independently  of  their  cause  of  going  to  London,  it  was 
Anne's  first  visit  there.  A  great  thunderstorm  overtook 
them  on  their  way  that  summer  evening  to  the  station  •  but 


54  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BRONTE. 

they  had  no  time  to  seek  shelter.  They  only  just  caught  tho 
train  at  Keighley,  arrived  at  Leeds,  and  were  whirled  up  by 
the  night  train  to  London. 

About  eight  o'clock  on  the  Saturday  morning,  they  ar- 
rived at  the  Chapter  Coffee-house,  Paternoster  E,ow — a 
strange  place,  but  they  did  not  well  know  where  else  to  go. 
They  refreshed  themselves  by  washing,  and  had  some  break- 
fast. Then  they  sat  still  for  a  few  minutes,  to  consider  what 
next  should  be  done. 

"When  they  had  been  discussing  their  project  in  the  quiet 
of  Haworth  Parsonage  the  day  before,  and  planning  the  mode 
of  setting  about  the  business  on  which  they  were  going  to 
London,  they  had  resolved  to  take  a  cab,  if  they  should  find 
it  desirable,  from  their  inn  to  Cornhill ;  but  that,  amidst  the 
oustle  and  "  queer  state  of  inward  excitement  "  in  which 
they  found  themselves,  as  they  sat  and  considered  their  posi- 
tion on  the  Saturday  morning,  they  quite  forgot  even  tlie  pos- 
sibility of  hiring  a  conveyance ;  and  when  they  set  forth, 
they  became  so  dismayed  by  the  crowded  streets,  and  the  im- 
peded crossings,  that  they  stood  still  repeatedly,  in  complete 
despair  of  making  progress,  and  were  nearly  an  hour  in  walk- 
ing the  half-mile  they  had  to  go.  Neither  Mr.  Smith  nor 
Mr.  Williams  knew  that  they  were  coming ;  they  were  en- 
tirely unknown  to  the  publishers  of  "  Jane  Eyre,"  who  were 
not,  in  fact,  aware  whether  the  "  Bells  "  were  men  or  women, 
but  had  always  written  to  them  as  to  men. 

On  reaching  Mr.  Smith's,  Charlotte  put  his  own  letter 
into  his  hands ;  the  same  letter  which  had  excited  so  much 
disturbance  at  Haworth  Parsonage  only  twenty-four  hours 
before.  "  Where  did  you  get  this  ?  "  said  he, — as  if  he  could 
not  believe  that  the  two  young  ladies  dressed  in  black,  of 
Blight  figures  and  diminutive  stature,  looking  pleased  yet  agi- 
tated, could  be  the  embodied  Currer  and  Acton  Bell,  for 
whom  curiosity  had  been  hunting  so  eagerly  in  vain.     An 


HER   VISIT   TO   THE   OrERA.  55 

explanation  ensued,  and  Mr.  Smith  at  once  began  to  form 
plans  for  their  amusement  and  pleasure  during  their  stay  in 
London.  He  urged  them  to  meet  a  few  literary  friends  at 
his  house ;  and  this  was  a  strong  temptation  to  Charlotte, 
as  amongst  them  were  one  or  two  of  the  writers  whom  she 
particularly  wished  to  see ;  but  her  resolution  to  remain 
unknown  induced  her  firmly  to  put  it  aside. 

The  sisters  were  equally  persevering  in  declining  Mr. 
Smith's  invitations  to  stay  at  his  house.  They  refused  to 
leave  their  quarters,  saying  they  were  not  prepared  for  a 
long  stay. 

When  they  returned  back  to  their  inn,  poor  Charlotte 
paid  for  the  excitement  of  the  interview,  which  had  wound 
up  the  agitation  and  hurry  of  the  last  twenty- four  hours,  by 
a  racking  headache  and  harassing  sickness.  Towards  even- 
ing, as  she  rather  expected  some  of  the  ladies  of  Mr.  Smith's 
family  to  call,  she  prepared  herself  for  the  chance,  by  taking 
a  strong  dose  of  sal-volatile,  which  roused  her  a  little,  but 
still,  as  she  says,  she  was  "  in  grievous  bodily  case,"  when 
their  visitors  were  announced,  in  full  evening  costume.  The 
sisters  had  not  understood  that  it  had  been  settled  that  they 
were  to  go  to  the  Opera,  and  therefore  were  not  ready. 
Moreover,  they  had  no  fine  elegant  dresses  either  with  them, 
or  in  the  wor.d.  But  Miss  Bronte  resolved  to  raise  no  ob- 
jections in  the  acceptance  of  kindness.  So,  in  spite  of  head- 
ache and  weariness,  they  made  haste  to  dress  themselves  in 
their  plain  high-made  country  garments. 

Charlotte  says,  in  an  account  which  she  gives  to  her 
friend  of  this  visit  to  London,  describing  the  entrance  of  her 
party  into  the  Opera-house  : — 

"  Fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  glanced  at  us,  as  we  stood 
by  the  box-door,  which  was  not  yet  opened,  with  a  slight 
graceful  superciliousness,  quite  warranted  by  the  circum- 
stances.    Still  I  felt  pleasurably  excited  in  spite  of  headache, 


56  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

sickness,  and  conscious  clownishness ;  and  I  saw  Anne  wan 
calm  and  gentle,  which  she  always  is.  The  performance 
was  Eossini's  ^  Barber  of  Seville,' — very  brilliant,  though  I 
fancy  there  are  things  I  should  like  better.  We  got  home 
after  one  o'clock.  We  had  never  been  in  bed  the  night  be- 
fore ;  had  been  in  constant  excitement  for  twenty-four  hours ; 
you  may  imagine  we  were  tired.  The  next  day,  Sunday, 
Mr.  Williams  came  early  to  take  us  to  church  ;  and  in  the 
afternoon  Mr.  Smith  and  his  mother  fetched  us  in  a  carriage, 
and  took  us  to  his  house  to  dine. 

"  On  Monday  we  went  to  the  Exhibition  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  the  National  Gallery,  dined  again  at  Mr.  Smith's, 
and  then  went  home  to  tea  with  Mr.  Williams  at  his  house. 

"  On  Tuesday  morning,  we  left  London,  laden  with  books 
Mr.  Smith  had  given  us,  and  got  safely  home.  A  more 
jaded  wretch  than  I  looked,  it  would  be  difficult  to  conceive. 
I  was  thin  when  I  went,  but  I  was  meagre  indeed  when  I 
returned,  my  face  looking  grey  and  very  old,  with  strange 
deep  lines  ploughed  in  it — my  eyes  stared  unnaturally.  I 
was  weak  and  yet  restless.  In  a  while,  however,  these  bad 
effects  of  excitement  went  off,  and  I  regained  my  normal 
condition." 

The  impression  Miss  Bronte  made  upon  those  with  whom 
she  first  became  acquainted  during  this  visit  to  London,  was 
of  a  person  with  clear  judgment  and  fine  sense  ;  and  though 
reserved,  possessing  unconsciously  the  power  of  drawing  out 
others  in  conversation.  She  never  expressed  an  opinion 
without  assigning  a  reason  for  it ;  she  never  put  a  question 
without  a  definite  purpose ;  and  yet  people  felt  at  their  ease 
in  talking  with  her.  All  conversation  with  her  was  genuine 
and  stimulating ;  and  when  she  launched  forth  in  praise  or 
reprobation  of  books,  or  deeds,  or  works  of  art,  her  eloquence 
was  indeed  burning.     She  was  thorough  in  all  that  she  said 


PATERNOSTER   KOW.      -  57 

or  did ;  yet  so  open  and  fair  in  dealing  with  a  subject,  or 
contending  with  an  opponent,  that  instead  of  rousing  resent- 
ment, she  merely  convinced  her  hearers  of  her  earnest  zeal 
for  the  truth  and  right. 

Not  the  least  singular  part  of  their  proceedings  was  the 
place  at  which  the  sisters  had  chosen  to  stay. 

Paternoster  Eow  was  for  many  years  sacred  to  publish- 
ers. It  is  a  narrow  flagged  street,  lying  under  the  shadow 
of  St.  Paul's ;  at  each  end  there  are  posts  placed,  so  as  to 
prevent  the  passage  of  carriages,  and  thus  preserve  a  solemn 
silence  for  the  deliberations  of  the  "  Fathers  of  the  Kow." 
The  dull  warehouses  on  each  side  are  mostly  occupied  at 
present  by  wholesale  stationers ;  if  they  be  publishers'  shops, 
they  show  no  attractive  front  to  the  dark  and  narrow  street. 
Half-way  up,  on  the  left  hand  side,  is  the  Chapter  Coffee- 
house. I  visited  it  last  June.  It  was  then  unoccupied.  It 
had  the  appearance  of  a  dwelling-house  two  hundred  years 
old  or  so,  such  as  one  sometimes  sees  in  ancient  country 
towns  ;  the  ceilings  of  the  small  rooms  were  low,  and  had 
heavy  beams  running  across  them;  the  walls  were  wain- 
scotted  breast  high ;  the  staircase  was  shallow,  broad,  and 
dark,  taking  up  much  space  in  the  centre  of  the  house.  This 
then  was  the  Chapter  Coffee-house,  which,  a  century  ago, 
was  the  resort  of  all  the  booksellers  and  publishers ;  and 
where  the  literary  hacks,  the  critics,  and  even  the  wits,  used 
to  go  in  search  of  ideas  or  employment.  This  was  the  place 
about  which  Chatterton  wrote,  in  those  delusive  letters  he 
sent  to  his  mother  at  Bristol,  while  he  was  starving  in  Lon- 
don. "  I  am  quite  familiar  at  the  Chapter  Coffee-house,  and 
know  all  the  geniuses  there."  Here  he  heard  of  chances  of 
employment ;  here  his  letters  were  to  be  left. 

Years  later,  it  became  the  tavern  frequented  by  univer- 
sity men  and  country  clergymen,  who  were  up  in  London 
for  a  few  days,  and,  having  no  private  friends  or  access  intc 
VOL.  II — 3* 


58  LIFE   OF   CIIARLOITE   BEONTE. 

society,  were  glad  to  learn  wliat  was  going  on  in  the  world 
of  letters,  from  the  conversation  which  they  were  sure  tc 
hear  in  the  coffee  room.  In  Mr.  Bronte's  few  and  brief 
visits  to  town,  during  his  residence  at  Cambridge,  and  the 
period  of  his  curacy  in  Essex,  he  had  staid  at  this  house ; 
hither  he  had  brought  his  daughters,  when  he  was  convoying 
them  to  Brussels ;  and  here  they  came  now,  from  very  igno- 
rance where  else  to  go.  It  was  a  place  solely  frequented  by 
men ;  1  believe  there  was  but  one  female  servant  in  the 
house.  Few  people  slept  there  ;  some  of  the  stated  meetings 
of  the  Trade  were  held  in  it,  as  they  had  been  for  more  than 
a  century ;  and,  occasionally,  country  booksellers,  with  now 
and  then  a  clergyman,  resorted  to  it ;  but  it  was  a  strange 
desolate  place  for  the  Miss  Brontes  to  have  gone  to,  from  its 
purely  business  and  masculine  aspect.  The  old  "  grey-haired 
elderly  man,"  who  officiated  as  waiter,  seems  to  have  been 
touched  from  the  very  first  with  the  quiet  simplicity  of  the 
two  ladies,  and  he  tried  to  make  them  feel  comfortable  and  at 
home  in  the  long,  low,  dingy  room  up  stairs,  where  the  meet- 
ings of  the  Trade  were  held.  The  high  narrow  windows 
looked  into  the  gloomy  Row ;  the  sisters,  clinging  together 
on  the  most  remote  window-seat,  (as  Mr.  Smith  tells  me  he 
found  them,  when  he  came,  that  Saturday  evening,  to  take 
them  to  the  Opera,)  could  see  nothing  of  motion,  or  of 
change,  in  the  grim,  dark  houses  opposite,  so  near  and  close, 
although  the  whole  breadth  of  the  Row  was  between.  The 
mighty  roar  of  London  was  round  them,  like  the  sound  of  an 
unseen  ocean,  yet  every  footfall  on  the  pavement  below 
might  be  heard  distinctly,  in  that  unfrequented  street.  Such 
as  it  was,  they  preferred  remaining  at  the  Chapter  Coffee- 
house, to  accepting  the  invitation  which  Mr.  Smith  and  his 
mother  urged  upon  them;  and,  in  after  years,  Charlotte 
gays : — 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   CITY   LIFE.  59 

*  Since  those  days  I  have  seen  the  West  End,  the  parks, 
the  line  squares;  but  I  love  the  City  far  better.  The  City 
seems  so  much  more  in  earnest ;  its  business,  its  rush,  its 
roar,  are  such  serious  things,  sights,  sounds.  The  City  is 
getting  its  living — the  West  End  but  enjoying  its  pleasure. 
At  the  West  End  you  may  be  amused ;  but  in  the  City  you 
are  deeply  excited."     {VilleUe^  vol.  i.,  p.  89.) 

Their  wish  had  been  tc  hear  Dr.  Croly  on  the  Sunday 
morning,  and  Mr.  Williams  escorted  them  to  St.  Stephen's, 
Walbrook ;  but  they  were  disappointed,  as  Dr.  Croly  did 
not  preach.  Mr.  Williams  also  took  them  (as  Miss  Bronto 
has  mentioned)  to  drink  tea  at  his  house.  On  the  way 
thither,  they  had  to  pass  through  Kensington  Gardens,  and 
Miss  Bronte  was  much  "  struck  with  the  beauty  of  the  scene, 
the  fresh  verdure  of  the  turf,  and  the  soft  rich  masses  of 
foliage."  From  remarks  on  the  different  character  of  the 
landscape  in  the  South  to  what  it  was  in  the  North,  she  was 
led  to  speak  of  the  softness  and  varied  intonation  of  the 
voices  of  those  with  whom  she  conversed  in  London,  which 
seem  to  have  made  a  strong  impression  on  both  sisters.  All 
this  time  those  who  came  in  contact  with  the  "  Miss 
Browns  "  (another  pseudonym,  also  beginning  with  B.),  seem 
only  to  have  regarded  them  as  shy  and  reserved  little  coun- 
try-women, with  not  much  to  say.  Mr.  Williams  tells  mo 
that  on  the  night  when  he  accompanied  the  party  to  the 
Opera,  as  Charlotte  ascended  the  flight  of  stairs  leading  from 
the  grand  entrance  up  to  the  lobby  of  the  first  tier  of  boxes, 
she  was  so  much  struck  with  the  architectural  effect  of  the 
splendid  decorations  of  that  vestibule  and  saloon,  that  in- 
voluntarily she  slightly  pressed  his  arm,  and  whispered, 
"  You  know  I  am  not  accustomed  to  this  sort  of  thing."  In- 
deed, it  must  have  formed  a  vivid  contrast  to  what  they  were 
doing  and  seeing  an  hour  or  two  earlier  the  night  before, 


CO  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BKONTE. 

wlien  tliey  were  trudging  along,  witli  beating  hearts  and 
high-strung  courage,  on  the  road  between  Haworth  and 
Keighley,  hardly  thinking  of  the  thnnder-storm  that  beat 
about  their  heads,  for  the  thoughts  which  filled  them  of  how 
they  would  go  straight  away  to  London,  and  prove  that  they 
were  really  two  people,  and  not  one  impostor.  It  was  no 
wonder  that  they  returned  to  Haworth  utterly  fagged  and 
worn  out,  after  the  fatigue  and  excitement  of  this  visit. 

The  next  notice  I  find  of  Charlotte's  life  at  thu  time  is 
of  a  different  character  to  any  thing  telling  of  enjovment. 

"Jalj28th. 
"Branwell  is  the  same  in  conduct  as  ever.  Kis  consti- 
tution seems  much  shattered.  Papa,  and  sometimes  all  of 
us,  have  sad  nights  with  him.  He  sleeps  most  of  the  day, 
and  consequently  will  lie  awake  at  night.  But  has  not  every 
house  its  trial  ?  " 

While  her  most  intimate  friends  were  yet  in  ignoranc  j 
of  the  fact  of  her  authorship  of  "  Jane  Eyre,"  she  received  a 
letter  from  one  of  them,  making  inquiries  about  Casterton 
School.     It  i's  but  right  to  give  her  answer,  written  on  Au 

gust  28th,  1848. 

^^  Since  you  wish  to  hear  from  me  while  you  are  from 
home,  I  will  write  without  further  delay.  It  often  happem 
that  when  we  linger  at  first  in  answering  a  friend's  letter, 
obstacles  occur  to  retard  us  to  an  inexcusably  late  period. 
In  my  last,  I  forgot  to  answer  a  question  which  you  asked 
me,  and  was  sorry  afterwards  for  the  omission.  I  will  begin, 
therefore,  by  replying  to  it,  though  I  fear  what  information 

I  can  give  will  come  a  little  late.     You  said  Mrs.  had 

some  thoughts  of  sending to  school,  and  wished  to  know 

whether  the  Clergy  Daughters'  School  at  Casterton  was  an 


CASTEKTON    SCHOOL.  61 

fjligible  place.  My  personal  knowledge  of  that  institution  w 
very  much  out  of  date,  being  derived  from  the  experience  of 
twenty  years  ago.  The  establishment  was  at  that  time  in  its 
infancy,  and  a  sad  ricketty  infancy  it  was.  Typhus  fever 
decimated  the  school  periodically;  and  consumption  and 
scrofula,  in  every  variety  of  form  bad  air  and  water,  bad  and 
nsufficient  diet  can  generate,  preyed  on  the  ill-fated  pupils. 
It  would  not  then  have  been  a  fit  place  for  any  of  Mrs. 

■ 's  children ;  but  I  understand  it  is  very  much  altered 

for  the  better  since  those  days.  The  school  is  removed  from 
Cowan  Bridge  (a  situation  as  unhealthy  as  it  was  picturesque 
— low,  damp,  beautiful  with  wood  and  water)  to  Casterton. 
The  accommodations,  the  diet,  the  discipline,  the  system  of 
tuition — all  are,  I  believe,  entirely  altered  and  greatly  im- 
proved. I  was  told  that  such  pupils  as  behaved  .well,  and 
remained  at  the  school  till  their  education  was  finished,  were 
provided  with  situations  as  governesses,  if  they  wished  to 
adopt  the  vocation,  and  much  care  was  exercised  in  the  se- 
lection ;  it  was  added,  that  they  were  also  furnished  with  an 

excellent  wardrobe  on  leaving  Casterton The  oldest 

family  in  Haworth  failed  lately,  and  have  quitted  the  neigh- 
bourhood where  their  fathers  resided  before  them  for,  it  is 
said,  thirteen  generations.  .  .  .  Papa,  I  am  most  thankful  to 
say,  continues  in  very  good  health,  considering  his  age ;  his 
sight,  too,  rather,  I  think,  improves  than  deteriorates.  My 
Bisters  likewise  are  pretty  well." 

But  the  dark  cloud  was  hanging  over  that  doomed  house- 
old,  and  gathering  blackness  every  hour. 
On  October  the  9th,  she  thus  writes: — 

"  The  past  three  weeks  have  been  a  dark  interval  m  om 
humble  home.  BranwelFs  constitution  had  been  failing  fast 
dl  the  summer  :  but  still,  neither  the  doctors  nor  /himself 


62  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

thought  him  so  near  his  end  as  he  was.  He  was  entirely 
confined  to  his  bed  but  for  one  single  day,  and  was  in  the 
village  two  days  before  his  death.  He  died,  after  twenty 
minutes'  struggle,  on  Sunday  morning,  September  24th.  He 
was  perfectly  conscious  till  the  last  agony  came  on.  His 
mind  had  undergone  the  peculiar  change  which  frequently 
precedes  death,  two  days  previously  the  calm  of  better 
feelings  filled  it ;  a  return  of  natural  afi*ection  marked  his 
last  moments.  He  is  in  God's  hands  now ;  and  the  AU- 
Powerful  is  likewise  the  All-Mercifal.  A  deep  cmviction 
that  he  rests  at  last — rests  well,  after  his  brief,  erring,  suf- 
.  fering,  feverish  life — fills  and  quiets  my  mind  now.  The 
final  separation,  the  spectacle  of  his  pale  corpse,  gave  me 
more  acute  bitter  pain  than  I  could  have  imagined.  Till  the 
last  hour  comes,  we  never  know  how  much  we  can  forgive, 
pity,  regret  a  near  relative.  All  his  vices  were  and  are  no- 
thing now.  We  remember  only  his  woes.  Papa  was  acute- 
ly distressed  at  first,  but,  on  the  whole,  has  borne  the  event 
well.  Emily  and  Anne  are  pretty  well,  though  Anne  is 
always  delicate,  and  Emily  has  a  cold  and  cough,  at  present. 
It  was  my  fate  to  sink  at  the  crisis,  when  I  should  have 
collected  my  strength.  Headache  and  sickness  came  on  first 
on  the  Sunday ;  I  could  not  regain  my  appetite.  Then  in 
ternal  pain  attacked  me.  I  became  at  once  much  reduced. 
It  was  impossible  to  touch  a  morsel.  At  last,  bilious  fever 
declared  itself  I  was  confined  to  bed  a  week, — a  dreary 
week.  But,  thank  God!  health  seems  noAV  returning.  I 
can  sit  up  all  day,  and  take  moderate  nourishment.  The 
doctor  said  at  first,  I  should  be  very  slow  in  recovering,  but 
I  seem  to  get  on  faster  than  he  anticipated.  I  am  truly 
much  better.'^'' 

I  have  heard,  from  one  who   attended  Branwell  in  his 
last  illness,  that  he  resolved  on  standing  up  to  die      He  had 


IMPENDING   SORROWS.  63 

repeatedly  said,  that  as  long  as  there  was  life  there  was 
strength  of  will  to  do  what  it  chose;  and  when  the  last 
agony  came  on,  he  insisted  on  assuming  the  position  just 
mentioned.  I  have  previously  stated,  that  when  his  fatal 
attack  came  on,  his  pockets  were  found  filled  with  old  letters 
from  the  woman  to  whom  he  was  attached.  He  died  !  she 
lives  still, — in  May  Fair.  The  Eumenides,  I  suppose,  went 
out  of  existence  at  the  time  when  the  wail  was  heard, 
"  Great  Pan  is  dead."  I  think  we  could  better  have  spared 
him  than  those  awful  Sisters  who  sting  dead  conscience  into 
life. 

I  turn  from  her  for  ever.     Let  us  look  once  more  into 
the  Parsonage  at  Haworth. 

"  Oct.  29tli,  1848. 
"  I  think  I  have  now  nearly  got  over  the  efiects  of  my 
late  illness,  and  am  almost  restored  to  my  normal  condition 
of  health.  I  sometimes  wish  that  it  was  a  little  higher,  but 
we  ought  to  be  content  with  such  blessings  as  we  have,  and 
not  pine  after  those  that  are  out  of  our  reach.  I  feel  much 
more  uneasy  about  my  sister  than  myself  just  now.  Emily's 
cold  and  cough  are  very  obstinate.  I  fear  she  has  pain  in 
her  chest,  and  I  sometimes  catch  a  shortness  in  her  breath- 
ing, when  she  has  moved  at  all  quickly.  She  looks  very 
thin  and  pale.  Her  reserved  nature  occasions  me  great 
uneasiness  of  mind.  It  is  useless  to  question  her ;  you  get 
no  answers.  It  is  still  more  useless  to  recommend  remedies ; 
they  are  nevet  adopted.  Nor  can  I  shut  my  eyes  to  Anne's 
great  delicacy  of  constitution.  The  late  sad  event  has,  I 
feel,  made  me  more  apprehensive  than  common.  I  cannot 
help  feeling  much  depressed  sometimes.  I  try  to  leave  all 
in  God's  hands  ;  to  trust  in  His  goodness ;  but  faith  and  re- 
Bignation  are  difficult  to  practise  under  some  circumstances. 
The  weather  has  been  most  unfavourable  for  invalids  of 


G4  LIFE   OF   CHAELOTTE   BPwONTfi. 

late ;  sudden  changes  of  temperature,  and  cold  penetralirg 
winds  have  been  frequent  here.  Should  the  atmosphere  bC' 
come  more  settled,  perhaps  a  favourable  effect  might  be 
produced  on  the  general  health,  and  these  harassing  colds 
and  coughs  be  removed.  Papa  has  not  quite  escaped,  but 
he  has  so  far  stood  it  better  than  any  of  us.  You  must  not 
mention  my  going  to  —  this  winter.     I  could  not,  and 

would  not,  leave  home  on  any  account.     Miss has  been 

for  some  years  out  of  health  now.  These  things  make  one 
feel^  as  well  as  hnow^  that  this  world  is  not  our  abiding- 
place.  We  should  not  knit  human  ties  too  close,  or  olasp 
human  affections  too  fondly.  They  must  leave  us,  or  we 
must  leave  them,  one  day.  God  restore  health  and  strength 
to  all  who  need  it !  " 

I  go  on  now  with  her  own  affecting  words  in  the  biogra- 
phical notices  of  her  sisters. 

"  But  a  great  change  approached.  Affliction  came  in 
that  shape  which  to  anticipate  is  dread ;  to  look  back  on 
grief.  In  the  very  heat  and  burden  of  the  day,  the  labour- 
ers failed  over  their  work.  My  sister  Emily  first  declined. 
....  Never  in  all  her  life  had  she  lingered  over  any  task 
that  lay  before  her,  and  she  did  not  linger  now.  She  sank 
rapidly.  She  made  haste  to  leave  us.  .  .  .  Day  by  da}-, 
when  I  saw  with  what  a  front  she  met  suffering,  I  looked  on 
her  with  an  anguish  of  wonder  and  love.  I  have  seen  no- 
thing like  it ;  but,  indeed,  I  have  never  seen  her  parallel  in 
anything.  Stronger  than  a  man,  simpler  than  a  child,  her 
nature  stood  alone.  The  awful  point  was  that  while  full  of 
ruth  for  others,  on  herself  she  had  no  pity ;  the  spirit  wa? 
inexorable  to  the  flesh;  from  the  trembling  hands,  the  un- 
nerved limbs,  the  fading  eyes,  the  same  service  was  exacted 
us  they  had  rendered  in  health.  To  stand  by  and  wHness 
this,  and  not  dare  to  remonstrate,  was  a  pain  no  words  can 
render." 


ill:n^ess  of  emily  bkonte.  65 

In  fact,  Emily  never  went  out  of  doors  after  the  Sunday 
succeeding  BranwelPs  death.  She  made  no  complaint ;  she 
would  not  endure  questioning :  she  rejected  sympathy  and 
help.  Many  a  time  did  Charlotte  and  Anne  drop  their  sew- 
ing, or  cease  from  their  writing,  to  listen  with  wrung  hearts 
to  the  failing  step,  the  laboured  breathing,  the  frequent 
pauses,  with  which  their  sister  climbed  the  short  staircase ; 
yet  they  dared  not  notice  what  they  observed,  with  pangs  of 
suffering  even  deeper  than  hers.  They  dared  not  notice  it 
in  words,  far  less  by  the  caressing  assistance  of  a  helping 
arm  or  hand.     They  sat,  still  and  silent. 

'*Nov.  23d,  1848. 
"  I  told  you  Emily  was  ill,  in  my  last  letter.  She  has 
not  rallied  yet.  She  is  very  ilL  I  believe,  if  you  were  to 
see  her,  your  impression  would  be  that  there  is  no  hope.  A 
more  hollow,  wasted,  pallid  aspect,  I  have  not  beheld.  The 
deep  tight  cough  continues;  the  breathing  after  the  least 
exertion  is  a  rapid  pant ;  and  these  symptoms  are  accom- 
panied by  pains  in  the  chest  and  side.  Her  pulse,  the  only 
time  she  allowed  it  to  be  felt,  was  found  to  beat  115  per 
minute.  In  this  state  she  resolutely  refuses  to  see  a  doctor , 
she  will  give  no  explanation  of  her  feelings,  she  will  scarcely 
allow  her  feelings  to  be  alluded  to.  Our  position  is,  and  ha?* 
been  for  some  weeks,  exquisitely  painful.  God  only  known 
how  all  this  is  to  terminate.  More  than  once,  I  have  been 
forced  boldly  to  regard  the  terrible  event  of  her  loss  as  pos- 
sible, and  even  probable.  But  nature  shrinks  from  such 
thoughts.  I  think  Emily  seems  the  nearest  thing  to  my 
heart  in  the  world." 

When  a  doctor  had  been  sent  for,  and  was  in  the  very 
house,  Emily  refused  to  see  him.  Her  sisters  could  only 
describe  to  him  what  symptoms  they  had  observed ;  and  the 


66  LIFE    OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

medicines  wliicli  lie  sent  she  would  not  take,  denying  thai 
she  was  ill 

*'  Dec.  lOth,  1848. 

"  I  hardly  know  what  to  say  to  you  about  the  subject 
which  now  interests  me  the  most  keenly  of  any  thing  in  this 
world,  for,  in  truth,  I  hardly  know  what  to  think  myself. 
Hope  and  fear  fluctuate  daily.  The  pain  in  her  side  and 
chest  is  better ;  the  cough,  the  shortness  of  breath,  the  ex- 
treme emaciation  continue.  I  have  endured,  however,  such 
tortures  of  uncertainty  on  this  subject,  that,  at  length,  I 
could  endure  it  no  longer ;  and  as  her  repugnance  to  seeing 
a  medical  man  continues  immutable, — as  she  declares  *  no 
poisoning  doctor '  shall  come  near  her, —  I  have  written,  un- 
known to  her,  to  an  eminent  physician  in  London,  giving  as 
minute  a  statement  of  her  case  and  symptoms  as  I  could 
draw  up,  and  requesting  an  opinion.  I  expect  an  answer  in 
a  day  or  two.  I  am  thankful  to  say,  that  my  own  health  at 
present  is  very  tolerable.  It  is  well  such  is  the  case ;  for 
Anne,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  to  be  useful,  is  really 
too  delicate  to  do  or  bear  much.  She,  too,  at  present,  has 
frequent  pains  in  the  side.  Papa  is  also  pretty  well,  though 
Emily's  state  renders  him  very  anxious. 

"  The s  (Anne  Bronte's  former  pupils)  were  here 

about  a  week  ago.  They  are  attractive  and  stylish-looking 
girls.  They  seemed  overjoyed  to  see  Anne :  when  I  went 
into  the  room,  they  were  clinging  round  her  like  two  chil- 
dren— she,  meantime,  looking  perfectly  quiet  and  passive. 
.  .  .  .  I.  and  H.  took  it  into  their  heads  to  come  here 
I  think  it  probable  offence  was  taken  on  that  occasion, — from 
what  cause,  I  know  not ;  and  as,  if  such  be  the  case,  the 
grudge  must  rest  upon  purely  imaginary  grounds, — and  since, 
besides,  I  have  other  things  to  think  about,  my  mind  rarely 
dwells  upon  the  subject.     If  Emily  were  but  well,  I  feel  a 


THE   SPEAY    OF   HEATHER.  67 

if  I  should  not  care  who  neglected,  misuuderstood,  or  abused 
me.  I  would  rather  you  were  not  of  the  number  either. 
The  crab-cheese  arrived  safely.  Emily  has  just  reminded 
me  to  thank  you  for  it :  it  looks  very  nice.  I  wish  she  were 
well  enough  to  eat  it." 

But  Emily  was  growing  rapidly  worse.  I  remember 
Miss  Bronte's  shiver  at  recalling  the  pang  she  felt  when, 
after  having  searched  in  the  little  hollows  and  sheltered 
crevices  cf  the  moors  for  a  lingering  spray  of  heather — just 
one  spray,  however  withered — to  take  in  to  Emily,  she  saw 
that  the  flower  was  not  recognized  by  the  dim  and  indifferent 
eyes.  Yet,  to  the  last,  Emily  adhered  tenaciously  to  her 
habits  of  independence.  She  would  suffer  no  one  to  assist 
her.  Any  effort  to  do  so  roused  the  old  stern  spirit.  One 
Tuesday  morning,  in  December,  she  arose  and  dressed  her- 
self as  usual,  making  many  a  pause,  but  doing  every  thing 
for  herself,  and  even  endeavoring  to  take  up  her  employment 
of  sewing  :  the  servants  looked  on,  and  knew  what  the  catch- 
ing, rattling  breath,  and  the  glazing  of  the  eye  too  surely 
foretold  ;  but  she  kept  at  her  work ;  and  Charlotte  and  Anne, 
though  full  of  unspeakable  dread,  had  still  the  faintest  spark 
of  hope.  On  that  morning  Charlotte  wrote  thus, — probably 
in  the  very  presence  of  her  dying  sister  : — 

"  Tuesday. 
^'  I  should  have  written  to  you  before,  if  I  had  had  one 
word  of  hope  to  say;  but  I  have  not.  She  grows  daily 
weaker.  The  physician's  opinion  was  expressed  too  obscurel 
to  be  of  use.  He  sent  some  medicine,  which  she  would 
not  take.  Moments  so  dark  as  these  I  have  never  known. 
I  pray  for  God's  support  to  us  all.  Hitherto  He  has  granted 
it." 

The  morning  drew  on  to  noon.     Emily  was  worse  :  she 


fi8  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

oould  only  whisper  In  gasps.  Now,  when  it  was  too  late,  she 
said  to  Charlotte,  "  If  you  will  send  for  a  doctor,  I  will  see 
him  now."     About  two  o'clock  she  died. 

"Dec.  21st,  1848. 

*'  Emily  suffers  no  more  from  pain  or  weakness  now. 
She  never  will  suffer  more  in  this  world.  She  is  gone,  after 
a  hard,  short  conflict.  She  died  on  Tuesday^  the  very  day  I 
wrote  to  you.  I  thought  it  very  possible  she  might  be  with 
us  still  for  weeks ;  and  a  few  hours  afterwards,  she  was  in 
eternity.  Yes  ;  there  is  no  Emily  in  time  or  on  earth  now. 
Yesterday  we  put  her  poor,  wasted,  mortal  frame  quietly  un- 
der the  Church  pavement.  We  are  very  calm  at  present. 
Why  should  we  be  otherwise  ?  The  anguish  of  seeing  her 
suffer  is  over ;  the  spectacle  of  the  pains  of  death  is  gone  by ; 
the  funeral  day  is  past.  We  feel  she  is  at  peace.  No  need 
now  to  tremble  for  the  hard  frost  and  the  keen  wind,  Emily 
does  not  feel  them.  She  died  in  a  time  of  promise.  We 
saw  her  taken  from  life  in  its  prime.  But  it  is  God's  will 
and  the  place  where  she  is  gone  is  better  than  that  she  has 
left. 

"  God  has  sustained  me,  in  a  way  that  I  marvel  at, 
through  such  agony  as  1  had  not  conceived.  I  now  look  at 
Anne,  and  wish  she  were  well  and  strong ;  but  she  is  nei- 
ther ;  nor  is  papa.  Could  you  now  come  to  us  for  a  few 
days  ?  I  would  not  ask  you  to  stay  long.  Write  and  tel) 
me  if  you  could  come  next  week,  and  by  what  train.  I 
would  try  to  send  a  gig  for  you  to  Keighley.  You  will,  I 
trust,  find  us  tranquil.  Try  to  come.  I  never  so  much 
needed  the  consolation  of  a  friend's  presence.  Pleasure,  of 
course,  there  would  be  none  for  you  in  the  visit,  except  what 
your  kind  heart  would  teach  you  to  find  in  doing  good  V 
others.'^ 


I'UNEEAL    OF   EMILY   BRO:NTii:.  6ii 

As  the  old  bereaved  father  and  his  two  surviving  children 
followed  the  coffin  to  the  grave,  they  were  joined  by  Keeper, 
Emily's  fierce,  faithful  bull-dog.  He  walked  alongside  of 
the  mourners,  and  into  the  church,  and  stayed  quietly  there 
all  the  time  that  the  burial  service  was  being  read.  When 
he  came  home,  he  lay  down  at  Emily's  chamber  door,  and 
howled  pitifully  for  many  days.  Anne  Bronte  drooped  and  • 
sickened  more  rapidly  from  that  time ,  and  so  ended  the  year 
1848. 


70  LIFE    OF   CHARLOTTE   BKOliTfi. 


OHAPTEE    111. 

An  article  on^^  A'anity  Fair  "  and  "  Jane  Ejre  had  appea/cd 
in  the  Quarterly  Eeview  of  December,  1848  Some  weeks 
after,  Miss  Bronte  wrote  to  her  publishers,  asking  why  it  had 
not  been  sent  to  her  ;  and  conjecturing  that  it  was  unfavour- 
able, she  repeated  her  previous  request,  that  whatever  was 
done  with  the  laudatory,  all  critiques  adverse  to  the  novel 
might  be  forwarded  to  her  without  fail.  The  Quarterly  He- 
view  was  accordingly  sent.  I  am  not  aware  that  Miss  Bronte 
took  any  greater  notice  of  the  article  than  to  place  a  few  sen* 
tences  out  of  it  in  the  mouth  of  a  hard  and  vulgar  woman  in 
"  Shirley,"  where  they  are  so  much  in  character,  that  few 
have  recognised  them  as  a  quotation.  The  time  wh^n  the 
article  was  read  was  good  for  Miss  Bronte ;  she  was  numbed 
to  all  petty  annoyances  by  the  grand  severity  of  Death. 
Otherwise  she  might  have  felt  more  keenly  than  they  de- 
served the  criticisms  which,  while  striving  to  be  severe,  failed 
in  logic,  owing  to  the  misuse  of  prepositions ;  and  have 
smarted  under  conjectures  as  to  the  authorship  of  "  Jane 
Eyre,"  which,  intended  to  be  acute,  were  merely  flippant. 
But  flippancy  takes  a  graver  name  when  directed  against  an 
author  by  an  anonymous  writer.  We  call  it  then  cowardly 
insolence. 

Every  one  has  a  right  to  form  his  own  conclusion  respect- 
ing the  merits  and  demerits  of  a  book.     I  complain  not  ol 


THE  QUARTERLY  REVIEW  ON  "  JANE  EYRE."'    Tl 

the  judgment  which  the  reviewer  passes  on  "  Jane  Eyre.' 
Opinions  as  to  its  tendency  varied  then,  as  they  do  now. 
While  I  write,  I  receive  a  letter  from  a  clergyman  in  Amer- 
ica in  which  he  says  :  "  We  have  in  our  sacred  of  sacreds  a 
special  shelf,  highly  adorned,  as  a  place  we  delight  to  honour, 
of  novels  which  we  recognise  as  having  had  a  good  influence 
on  character,  our  character.     Foremost  is  *  Jane  Eyre.'  " 

Nor  do  I  deny  the  existence  of  a  diametrically  opposite 
judgment.  And  so  (as  I  trouble  not  myself  about  the  re- 
viewer's style  of  composition)  I  leave  his  criticisms  regard-  * 
ing  the  merits  of  the  work  on  one  side.  But  when — forget- 
ting the  chivalrous  spirit  of  the  good  and  noble  Southey, 
who  said  :  "  In  reviewing  anonymous  works  myself,  when  I 
have  known  the  authors  I  have  never  mentioned  them,  taking 
it  for  granted  they  had  sufficient  reasons  for  avoiding  the 
publicity" — the  Quarterly  reviewer  goes  on  into  gossiping 
conjectures  as  to  who  Currer  Bell  really  is,  and  pretends  to 
decide  on  what  the  writer  may  be  from  the  book,  I  protest 
with  my  whole  soul  against  such  want  of  Christian  charity. 
Not  even  the  desire  to  write  a  "  smart  article,"  which  shall 
be  talked  about  in  London,  when  the  faint  mask  of  the 
anonymous  can  be  dropped  at  pleasure  if  the  cleverness  of  the 
review  be  admired — not  even  this  temptation  can  excuse  the 
stabbing  cruelty  of  the  judgment.  Who  is  he  that  should 
say  of  an  unknown  woman :  "She  must  be  one  who  for  some 
sufficient  reason  has  long  forfeited  the  society  of  her  sex  "  ? 
Is  he  one  who  has  led  a  wild  and  struggling  and  isolated 
life, — seeing  few  but  plain  and  outspoken  Northerns,  un- 
skilled in  the  euphuisms  which  assist  the  polite  world  to 
Bkim  over  the  mention  of  vice  ?  Has  he  striven  through  long 
weeping  years  to  find  excuses  for  the  lapse  of  an  only  brother ; 
and  through  daily  contact  with  a  poor  lost  profligate,  been 
compelled  into  a  certain  familiarity  with  the  vices  that  his 
soul  abhors  ?     Has  he,  through  trials,  close  following  in  dread 


72  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

march  through  his  household,  sweeping  the  hearthstone  bare 
of  life  and  love,  still  striven  hard  for  strength  to  say,  "  It  is 
the  Lord  !  let  Him  do  what  seemeth  to  Him  good  " — and 
sometimes  striven  in  vain,  until  the  kindly  Light  returned  ? 
If  through  all  these  dark  waters  the  scornful  reviewer  have 
passed  clear,  refined,  free  from  stain, — with  a  soul  that  has 
never  in  all  its  agonies,  cried  "  lama  sabachthani," — still 
even  then  let  him  pray  with  the  Publican  rather  than  judge 
with  the  Pharisee. 


*'  Jan.  lOtli,  1849. 
"  Anne  haa  a  very  tolerable  day  yesterday,  and  a  pretty 
quiet  night  last  night,  though  she  did  not  sleep  much.  Mr. 
Wheelhouse  ordered  the  blister  to  be  put  on  again.  She 
bore  it  without  sickness.  I  have  just  dressed  it,  and  she  is 
risen  and  come  down  stairs.  She  looks  somewhat  pale  and 
sickly.  She  has  had  one  dose  of  the  cod-liver  oil ;  it  smells 
and  tastes  like  train  oil.  I  am  trying  to  hope,  but  the  day 
is  windy,  cloudy,  and  stormy.  My  spirits  fall  at  intervals 
very  low ;  then  I  look  where  you  counsel  me  to  look,  beyond 
earthly  tempests  and  sorrows.  I  seem  to  get  strength,  if 
not  consolation.  It  will  not  do  to  anticipate.  I  feel  that 
hourly.  In  the  night,  I  awake  and  long  for  morning  ;  then 
my  heart  is  wrung.     Papa  continues  much  the  same ;  he  was 

very  faint  when   he  came  down   to  breakfast Dear 

E ,   your   friendship   is   some    comfort    to    me.      I 

am  thankful  for  it.  I  see  few  lights  through  the  darkness 
of  the  present  time ;  but  amongst  them  the  constancy  of  a 
kind  heart  attached  to  me  is  one  of  the  most  cheering  and 
eerene." 

*'  Jan.  15th,  1849. 
"  I  can  scarcely  say  that  Anne  is  worse,  nor  can  I  say 
she  is  better.     She  varies  often  in  the  course  of  a  day,  yet 


A  TIME  OF  DAKKJSTESS.  73 

each  day  is  passed  pretty  mucli  the  same.  The  morning  is 
usually  the  best  time ;  the  afternoon  and  the  evening  the 
most  feverish.  Her  cough  is  the  most  troublesome  at  night, 
but  it  is  rarely  violent.  The  pain  in  her  arm  still  disturbs 
her.  She  takes  the  cod-liver  oil  and  carbonate  of  iron  re- 
gularly ;  she  finds  them  both  nauseous,  but  especially  the  oil. 
Her  appetite  is  small  indeed.  Do  not  fear  that  I  shall  relax 
in  my  care  of  her.  She  is  too  precious  not  to  be  cherished 
with  all  the  fostering  strength  I  have.  Papa,  I  am  thankful 
to  say,  has  been  a  good  deal  better  this  last  day  or  two, 

"  As  to  your  queries  about  myself,  I  can  only  say,  that 
if  I  continue  as  I  am  I  shall  do  very  well.  I  have  not  yet 
got  rid  of  the  pains  in  my  chest  and  back.  They  oddly  re- 
turn with  every  change  of  weather  ;  and  are  still  sometimes 
accompanied  with  a  little  soreness  and  hoarseness,  but  I 
combat  them  steadily  with  pitch  plasters  and  bran  tea.  I 
should  think  it  silly  and  wrong  indeed  not  to  be  regardful 
of  my  own  health  at  present;  it  would  not  do  to  be  ill 
now. 

"  I  avoid  looking  forward  or  backward,  and  try  to  keep 
looking  upward.  This  is  not  the  time  to  regret,  dread,  or 
weep.  What  I  have  and  ought  to  do  is  very  distinctly  laid 
out  for  me ;  what  I  want,  and  pray  for,  is  strength  to  per- 
form it.  The  days  pass  in  a  slow,  dark  march ;  the  nights 
are  the  test;  the  sudden  wakings  from  restless  sleep,  the 
revived  knowledge  that  one  lies  in  her  grave,  and  another 
not  at  my  side,  but  in  a  separate  and  sick  bed.  However, 
God  is  over  all.'' 

<•  Jan.  22ncl,  1849. 
'^  Anne  really  did  seem  to  be  a  little  better  during  some 
mild   days  last  week,  but   to-day  she  looks  very  pale  and 
languid  again.     She  perseveres  with  the  cod-liver  oil,  but 
Btill  finds  it  very  nauseous. 

VOL.  II. — 4 


74  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKCNTE. 

"  She  is  truly  obliged  to  you  for  the  soles  for  her  shoes 
and  finds  them  extremely  comfortable.     I  am  to  commission 

you  to  get  her  just  such  a  respirator   as    Mrs. had. 

She  would  not  object  to  give  a  higher  price,  if  you  thought 
it  better.  If  it  is  not  too  much  trouble,  you  may  likewise 
get  me  a  pair  of  soles ;  you  can  send  them  and  the  respirator 
when  you  send  the  box.  You  must  put  down  the  price  of 
all,  and  we  will  pay  you  in  a  Post  Office  order.     *  Wuthering 

Heights'  was  given  to  you.     I  have  sent neither  letter 

nor  parcel.  I  had  nothing  but  dreary  news  to  write,  so  pre- 
ferred that  others  should  tell  her.     I  have  not  written  to 

•   either.     I    cannot   write,    except   when   I   am   quite 

obliged." 

*'reb.  11th,  1849. 
"  We  received  the  box  and  its  contents  quite  safely  to- 
day. The  penwipers  are  very  pretty,  and  we  are  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  them.  I  hope  the  respirator  will  be  use- 
ful to  Anne,  in  case  she  should  ever  be  well  enough  to  go 
out  again.  She  continues  very  much  in  the  same  state — I 
trust  not  greatly  worse,  though  she  is  becoming  very  thin. 
I  fear  it  would  be  only  self-delusion  to  fancy  her  better. 
What  effect  the  advancing  season  may  have  on  her,  I  know 
not ;  perhaps  the  return  of  really  warm  weather  may  give 
nature  a  happy  stimulus.  I  tremble  at  the  thought  of  any 
change  to  cold  wind  or  frost.  Would  that  March  were  well 
over  1  Her  mind  seems  generally  serene,  and  her  sufferings 
hitherto  are  nothing  like  Emily's.  The  thought  of  what  may 
be  to  come  grows  more  familiar  to  my  mind ;  but  it  is  a  sad, 
dreary  guest." 

"March  16th,  1819. 
*^  We  have  found  the  past  week  a  somewhat  trying  one ; 
it  has  not  been  cold,  but  still  there  have  been  changes  of 


SUPPORT   UKDER   AFFLICTION.  75 

temperature  whose  effect  Anne  has  felt  unfavourably.  She 
is  not,  I  trust,  seriously  worse,  but  her  cough  is  at  times  very 
hard  and  painful,  and  her  strength  rather  diminished  than 
improved.  I  wish  the  month  of  March  was  well  over.  You 
are  right  in  conjecturing  that  I  am  somewhat  depressed ;  at 
times  I  certainly  am.  It  was  almost  easier  to  bear  up  when 
the  trial  was  at  its  crisis  than  new.  The  feeling  of  Emily's 
loss  does  not  diminish  as  time  wears  on ;  it  often  makes  it- 
self most  acutely  recognised.  It  brings  too  an  inexpressible 
sorrow  with  it ;  and  then  the  future  is  dark.  Yet  I  am  well 
aware,  it  will  not  do  either  to  complain,  or  sink,  and  I  strive 
to  do  neither.  Strength,  I  hope  and  trust,  will  yet  be  given 
in  proportion  to  the  burden ;  but  the  pain  of  my  position  is 
not  one  likely  to  lessen  with  habit.  Its  solitude  and  isolation 
are  oppressive  circumstances,  yet  I  do  not  wish  for  any 
friends  to  stay  with  me  ;  I  could  not  do  with  any  one — not 
even  you — to  share  the  sadness  of  the  house ;  it  would  rack 
me  intolerably.  Meantime,  judgment  is  still  blent  with 
mercy.  Anne's  sufferings  still  continue  mild.  It  is  my 
nature,  when  left  alone,  to  struggle  on  with  a  certain  perse- 
verance, and  I  believe  Grod  will  help  me." 

Anne  had  been  delicate  all  her  life ;  a  fact  which  per- 
haps made  them  less  aware  than  they  would  otherwise  have 
been,  of  the  true  nature  of  those  fatal  first  symptoms.  Yet 
they  seem  to  have  lost  but  little  time  before  they  sent  for 
the  first  advice  that  could  be  procured.  She  was  examined 
with  the  stethoscope,  and  the  dreadful  fact  was  announced 
that  her  lungs  were  affected,  and  that  tubercular  consumption 
had  already  made  considerable  progress.  A  system  of  treat- 
ment was  prescribed,  which  was  afterwards  ratified  by  the 
opinion  of  Dr.  Forbes. 

For  a  short  time  they  hoped  that  the  disease  was  arrested. 
Charlotte — ^lierself  ill  with  a  complaint  that  severely  tried 


76  LIFE   OF   CIIAELO^ITE   BKONTE. 

her  spirits — was  the  ever-watchful  nurse  of  this  youngest, 
last  sister.  One  comfort  was  tBat  Anne  was  the  patientest, 
gentlest  invalid  that  could  be.  Still,  there  were  hours,  days, 
weeks  of  inexpressible  anguish  to  be  borne ;  under  the  pres- 
sure of  which  Charlotte  could  only  pray ;  and  pray  she  did, 
right  earnestly.     Thus  she  writes  on  March  24th : — 

*' Anne's  decline  is  gradual  and  fluctuating ;  but  its  na- 
ture is  not  doubtful In  spirit  she  is  resigned :  at 

heart  she  is,  I  believe,  a  true  Christian May  God 

support  her  and  all  of  us  through  the  trial  of  lingering  sick- 
ness, and  aid  her  in  the  last  hour,  when  the  struggle  which 
separates  soul  from  body  must  be  gone  through  !  We  saw 
Emily  torn  from  the  midst  of  us  when  our  hearts  clung  to 
her  with  intense  attachment.  ....  She  was  scarce  buried 

when  Anne's  health  failed These  things  would  be  too 

much,  if  reason,  unsupported  by  religion,  were  condemned  to 
bear  them  alone.  I  have  cause  to  be  most  thankful  for  the 
strength  that  has  hitherto  been  vouchsafed  both  to  ray  father 
and  to  myself.  God,  I  think,  is  specially  merciful  to  old 
age ;  and  for  my  own  part,  trials,  which  in  perspective  would 
have  seemed  to  me  quite  intolerable,  when  they  actually 
came,  I  endured  without  prostration.  Yet  I  must  confess 
that,  in  the  time  which  has  elapsed  since  Emily's  death,  there 
have  been  moments  of  solitary,  deep,  inert  affliction,  far 
harder  to  bear  than  those  which  immediately  followed  our 
loss.  The  crisis  of  bereavement  has  an  acute  pang  which 
goads  to  exertion ;  the  desolate  after-feeling  sometimes  para- 
lyzes. I  have  learnt  that  we  are  not  to  find  solace  in  our 
own  strength  •  we  must  seek  it  in  God's  omnipotence.  For- 
titude is  good ;  but  fortitude  itself  must  be  shaken  under  us 
to  teach  us  how  weak  we  are  !  " 

\11  through  this  illness  of  Anne's,  Charlotte  had  the  com- 


CRITICAL   STATE   OF   ANNE   BKONTE.  77 

fort  of  being  able  to  talk  to  her  about  her  state ;  a  comfort 
rendered  inexpressibly  great  by  the  contrast  which  it  pre- 
sented to  the  recollection  of  Emily's  rejection  of  all  sympathy. 
If  a  proposal  for  Anne's  benefit  was  made,  Charlotte  could 
speak  to  her  about  it,  and  the  nursing  and  dying  sister  could 
consult  with  each  other  as  to  its  desirability.  I  have  seen 
but  one  of  Anne's  letters ;  it  is  the  only  time  we  seem  to  be 
brought  into  direct  personal  contact  with  this  gentle,  patient 
girl.  In  order  to  give  the  requisite  preliminary  explanation, 
I  must  state  that  the  family  of  friends,  tc  which  E be- 
longed, proposed  that  Anne  should  come  to  them ;  in  order 
to  try  what  change  of  air  and  diet,  and  the  company  of  kindly 
people  could  do  towards  restoring  her  to  health.  In  answer 
to  this  proposal,  Charlotte  writes  : — 

"  March  24th. 
^^  I  read  your  kind  note  to  Anne,  and  she  wishes  me  to 
thank  you  sincerely  for  your  friendly  proposal.     She  feels,  of 
course,  that  it  would  not  do  to  take  advantage  of  it,  by 

quartering  an  invalid  upon  the  inhabitants  of ;  but  she 

intimates  there  is  another  way  in  which  you  might  serve  her, 
perhaps  with  some  benefit  to  yourself  as  well  as  to  her. 
Should  it,  a  month  or  two  hence,  be  deemed  advisable  that 
she  should  go  either  to  the  sea-side,  or  to  some  inland  water- 
ing-place— and  should  papa  be  disinclined  to  move,  and  I 
consequently  obliged  to  remain  at  home — she  asks,  could  you 
be  her  companion  ?  Of  course  I  need  not  add  that  in  the 
event  of  such  an  arrangement  being  made,  you  would  be  put 
o  no  expense.  This,  dear  B.,  is  Anne's  proposal;  I  make 
t  to  comply  with  her  wish ;  but  for  my  own  part,  I  must  add 
that  I  see  serious  objections  to  your  accepting  it — objections 
I  cannot  name  to  her.  She  continues  to  vary;  is  sometimes 
worse,  and  sometimes  better,  as  the  weather  changes  ;  but,  on 
the  whole^  I  fear  she  loses  strength.     Papa  says  her  state  is 


78  LIFE   OF   CIIARIOTTE   BRONTE. 

most  precarious ;  she  may  be  spared  for  some  time,  or  a  sud- 
den alteration  might  remove  her  before  we  are  aware.  AYere 
such  an  alteration  to  take  place  while  she  was  far  from  home, 
and  alone  with  you,  it  would  be  terrible.  The  idea  of  it  dis- 
tresses me  inexpressibly,  and  I  tremble  whenever  she  alludes 
to  the  project  of  a  journey.  In  short,  I  wish  we  could  gain 
time,  and  see  how  she  gets  on.  If  she  leaves  home,  it  cer- 
tainly should  not  be  in  the  capricious  month  of  May,  which 
is  proverbially  trying  to  the  weak.  June  would  be  a  safer 
month.  If  we  could  reach  June,  I  should  have  good  hopes 
of  her  getting  through  the  summer.  Write  such  an  answer  to 
this  note  as  I  can  show  Anne.  You  can  write  any  additional 
remarks  to  me  on  a  separate  piece  of  paper.  Do  not  consider 
yourself  as  confined  to  discussing  only  our  sad  afikirs.  I  am 
interested  in  all  that  interests  you.'^ 

FROM    ANNE  BRONTE. 

'^  April  5th,  1849. 

"My  dear  Miss  , — I  thank   you  greatly  for  your 

kind  letter,  and  your  ready  compliance  with  my  proposal,  aa 
far  as  the  will  can  go  at  least.  I  see,  however,  that  yuiir 
friends  are  unwilling  that  you  should  undertake  the  respon- 
sibility of  accompanying  me  under  present  circumstances. 
But  I  do  not  think  there  would  be  any  great  responsibility 
in  the  matter.  I  know,  and  everybody  knows,  that  you 
would  be  as  kind  as  helpful  as  any  one  could  possibly  be, 
and  I  hope  I  should  not  be  very  troublesome.  It  would  be 
as  a  companion,  not  as  a  nurse,  that  I  should  wish  for  your 
company ;  otherwise  I  should  not  venture  to  ask  it.     As  for 

your  kind  and  often-repeated  invitation  to ,  pray  give 

my  sincere  thanks  to  your  mother  and  sisters,  but  tell  them 
I  could  not  think  of  inflicting  my  presence  upon  them  as  I 
uow  am.     It  is  very  kind  of  them  to  make  so  light  of  the 


LETTER   FROM   ANNE   BRONTE.  7S 

trouble,  but  still  there  must  be  more  or  less,  and  certainly  no 
pleasure,  from  the  society  of  a  silent  invalid  stranger.  I 
hope,  however,  that  Charlotte  will  by  some  means  make  it 
possible  to  accompany  me  after  all.  She  is  certainly  very 
delicate,  and  greatly  needs  a  change  of  air  and  scene  to  reno- 
vate her  constitution.  And  then  your  going  with  me  before 
the  end  of  May,  is  apparently  out  of  the  question,  unless  you 
are  disappointed  in  your  visitors ;  but  I  should  be  reluctant 
to  wait  till  then,  if  the  weather  would-  at  all  permit  an  earlier 
departure.  You  say  May  is  a  trying  month,  and  so  say 
others.  The  earlier  part  is  often  cold  enough,  I  acknow- 
ledge, but,  according  to  my  experience,  we  are  almost  certain 
of  some  fine  warm  days  in  the  latter  half,  when  the  labur- 
nums and  lilacs  are  in  bloom ;  whereas  June  is  often  cold, 
and  July  generally  wet.  But  I  have  a  more  serious  reason 
than  this  for  my  impatience  of  delay.  The  doctors  say  that 
change  of  air  or  removal  to  a  better  climate  would  hardly 
ever  fail  of  success  in  consumptive  cases,  if  the  remedy  were 
taken  in  time  ;  but  the  reason  why  there  are  so  many  dis- 
appointments is,  that  it  is  generally  deferred  till  it  is  too 
late.  Now  I  would  not  commit  this  error ;  and,  to  say  the 
truth,  though  I  suffer  much  less  from  pain  and  fever  than  I 
did  when  you  were  with  us,  I  am  decidedly  weaker,  and  very 
much  thinner.  My  cough  still  troubles  me  a  good  deal,  es- 
pecially in  the  night,  and,  what  seems  worse  than  all,  I  am 
subject  to  great  shortness  of  breath  on  going  upstairs  or  any 
slight  exertion.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  think  there 
is  no  time  to  be  lost.  I  have  no  horror  of  death :  if  I  thought 
it  inevitable,  I  think  I  could  quietly  resign  myself  to  tho 

prospect,  in  the  hope  that  you,  dear  Miss ,  would  give 

as  much  of  your  company  as  you  possibly  could  to  Charlotte, 
and  be  a  sister  to  her  in  my  stead.  But  I  wish  it  would 
please  God  to  spare  me,  not  only  for  Papa's  and  Charlotte's 
Bakes,  but  because  I  long  to  do  some  good  in  the  world  be- 


80  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

fore  I  leave  it.  I  have  many  schemes  in  my  head  for  future 
practice — humble  and  limited  indeed — hut  still  I  should  not 
like  them  all  to  come  to  nothing,  and  myself  to  have  lived  to 
so  little  purpose.  But  God's  will  be  done.  Remember  me 
respectfully  to  your  mother  and  sisters,  and  believe  me,  dear 

Miss ,  yours  most  affectionately, 

"  Anne  Bronte." 

It  must  have  been  about  this  time  that  Anne  composed 
her  last  verses,  before  "  the  desk  was  closed,  and  the  pen  laid 
aside  for  ever." 


'*  I  hoped  that  with  the  brave  and  strong 
My  portioned  task  might  lie  ; 
To  toil  amid  the  busy  throng, 
With  purpose  pure  and  high. 

II. 

"  But  God  has  fixed  another  part, 
And  He  has  fixed  it  well : 
I  said  so  with  my  bleeding  heart, 
When  first  the  anguish  fell. 

III. 

*'  Thou,  God,  hast  taken  our  delight, 
Our  treasured  hope,  away  ; 
Thou  bid'st  us  now  weep  through  the  night, 
And  sorrow  through  the  day. 


"  These  weary  hours  will  not  be  lost. 
These  days  of  misery, — ■ 
These  nights  of  darkness,  anguish-tt  st,— • 
Can  I  but  turn  to  Thee. 


ANNE  BJRONTe'S   LAST   VERSES.  81 


"  Witli  secret  labour  to  sustain 

In  humble  patience  every  blow ; 
To  gather  fortitude  from  pain, 
And  hope  and  holiness  from  woe. 

VI. 

"  Thus  let  me  serve  Thee  from  my  heart, 
Whatever  may  be  my  written  fate  ; 
Whether  thus  early  to  depart, 
Or  yet  a  while  to  wait. 

VII. 

"  If  Thou  should'st  bring  me  back  to  life, 
More  humbled  I  should  be ; 
More  wise — more  strengthened  for  the  strife, 
More  apt  to  lean  on  Thee. 

VIII. 

"  Should  death  be  standing  at  the  gate, 
Thus  should  I  keep  my  vow ; 
But,  Lord,  whatever  be  my  fate. 
Oh  let  me  serve  Thee  now  !  " 

I  take  Charlotte's  own  ^vords  as  the  best  record  of  her 
tloughts  and  feelings  during  all  this  terrible  time. 

*^  April  12th. 

"  I  read  Anne  s  letter  to  you ;  it  was  touching  enough,  as 
you  say.  If  there  were  no  hope  beyond  this  world, — no  eter- 
nity,— ^no  life  to  come, — ^Emily's  fate,  and  that  which  threatens 
Anne,  would  be  heart-breaking.  I  cannot  forget  Emily's 
death-day ;  it  becomes  a  more  j5xed,  a  darker,  a  more  fre- 
quently recurring  idea  in  my  mind  than  ever.  It  was  very 
terrible.  She  was  torn,  conscious,  panting,  reluctant,  though 
resolute,  out  of  a  happy  life.  But  it  ivill  not  do  to  dwell  on 
these  things. 

"  I  am  glad  your  friends  object  to  your  going  with  Anne 

VOL.  II.— 4* 


S2  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

it  would  never  do.  To  speak  truth,  even  if  your  mothei 
and  sisters  consented,  I  never  could,  It  is  not  that  there  is 
any  laborious  attention  to  pay  her ;  she  requires,  and  will  ac- 
cept, but  little  nursing ;  but  there  would  be  hazard,  and  anx- 
iety of  mind,  beyond  what  you  ought  to  be  subject  to.  If, 
a  month  or  six  weeks  hence,  she  continues  to  wish  for  a 
change  as  much  as  she  does  now,  I  shall  (D.  V.)  go  with  her 
myself.  It  will  certainly  be  my  paramount  duty;  other 
cares  must  be  made  subservient  to  that.     I  have  consulted 

Mr.  T :  he  does  not  object,  and  recommends  Scarbu- 

rough,  which  was  Anne's  own  choice.  I  trust  affairs  may  be 
so  ordered,  that  you  may  be  able  to  be  with  us  at  least  part 
of  the  time.  ....  Whether  in  lodgings  or  not,  I 
should  wish  to  be  boarded.  Providing  oneself,  is,  I  think, 
an  insupportable  nuisance.  I  don't  like  keeping  provisions 
in  a  cupboard,  locking  up,  being  pillaged,  and  all  that.  It  is 
a  petty,  wearing  annoyance." 

The  progress  of  Anne's  illness  was  slower  than  ttiat  of 
Emily's  had  been ;  and  she  was  too  unselfish  to  refuse  trying 
means,  from  which,  if  she  herself  had  little  hope  of  benefit, 
her  friends  might  hereafter  derive  a  mournful  satisfaction. 

"  I  began  to  flatter  myself  she  was  getting  strength.  But 
the  change  to  frost  has  told  upon  her ;  she  suffers  more  of 
late.  Still  her  illness  has  none  of  the  fearful  rapid  symp- 
toms which  appalled  in  Emily's  case.  Could  she  only  get 
over  the  spring.  I  hope  summer  may  do  much  for  her,  and 
then  early  removal  to  a  warmer  locality  for  the  winter 
might,  at  least,  prolong  her  life.  Could  we  only  reckon  up- 
on another  year,  I  should  be  thankful ;  but  can  we  do  this 
for  the  healthy  ?  A  few  days  ago  I  wrote  to  have  Dr. 
Forbes'  opinion  ....  He  warned  us  against  entertain- 
ing sanguine  hopes  of  recovery.     The  cod-liver  oil  he  consi- 


ANNE  Bronte's  increasing  illni:ss.  83 

ders  a  peculiarly  eflScacious  medicine.  He,  too,  disapproved 
of  cliange  of  residence  for  the  present.  There  is  some  feeble 
consolation  in  thinking  we  are  doing  the  very  best  that 
can  be  done.  The  agony  of  forced,  total  neglect,  is  not  now 
felt,  as  during  Emily's  illness.  Never  may  we  be  doomed  to 
feel  such  agony  again.  It  was  terrible.  I  have  felt  much 
less  of  the  disagreeable  pains  in  my  chest  lately,  and  much 
less  also  of  the  soreness  and  hoarseness.  I  tried  an  applica- 
tion of  hot  vinegar,  which  seemed  to  do  good." 

*'  May  1st. 
"  I  was  glad  to  hear  that  when  we  go  to  Scarborough, 
you  will  be  at  liberty  to  go  with  us,  but  the  journey  and  its 
consequences  still  continue  a  source  of  great  anxiety  to  me ; 
I  must  try  to  put  it  off  two  or  three  weeks  longer  if  I  can  ; 
perhaps  by  that  time  the  milder  season  may  have  given  Anne 
more  strength, — perhaps  it  will  be  otherwise ;  I  cannot  tell. 
The  change  to  fine  weather  has  not  proved  beneficial  to  her 
so  far.  She  has  sometimes  been  so  weak,  and  suffered  so 
much  from  pain  in  the  side,  during  the  last  few  days,  that  I 
have  not  known  what  to  think.  .  .  .  .  She  may  rally 
again,  and  be  much  better,  but  there  must  be  some  improve- 
ment before  I  can  feel  justified  in  taking  her  away  from 
home.  Yet  to  delay  is  painful ;  for,  as  is  always  the  case, 
I  believe,  under  her  circumstances,  she  seems  herself  not  half 
conscious  of  th©  necessity  for  such  delay.  She  wonders,  I 
believe,  why  I  don't  talk  more  about  the  journey ;  it  grieves 
me  to  think  she  may  even  be  hurt  by  my  seeming  tardiness. 
She  is  very  much  emaciated, — far  more  than  when  you  were 
with  us ;  her  arms  are  no  thicker  than  a  little  child's.  The 
least  exertion  brings  a  shortness  of  breath.     She  goes  out  a 

little  every  day,  but  we  creep  rather  than  v/alk Papa 

continues  pretty  well ; — I  hope  I  shall  be  enabled  to  bear 
up.     So  far,  I  have  reason  for  thankfulness  to  God." 


84:  •  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BEONTE. 

May  had  come,  and  brought  the  milder  weather  longed 
for  •  but  Anne  was  worse  for  the  very  change.  A  little  later 
on,  it  became  colder,  and  she  rallied,  and  poor  Charlotte  be- 
gan to  hope  that,  if  May  were  once  over,  she  might  last  for 
a  long  time.  Miss  Bronte  wrote  to  engage  the  lodgings  at 
Scarborough, — a  place  which  Anne  had  formerly  visited 
with  the  family  to  whom  she  was  governess.  They  took  a 
good-sized  sitting-room,  and  an  airy  double-bedded  room 
(both  commanding  a  sea-view),  in  one  of  the  best  situations 
of  the  town.  Money  was  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  life  : 
besides,  Anne  had  a  small  legacy  left  to  her  by  her  godmo- 
ther, and  they  felt  that  she  could  not  better  employ  this  than 
in  obtaining  what  might  prolong  life,  if  not  restore  health. 
On  May  16th,  Charlotte  writes  : 

"  It  is  with  a  heavy  heart  I  prepare  ;  and  earnestly  do  I 
wish  the  fatigue  of  the  journey  were  well  over.  It  may  be 
borne  better  than  I  expect ;  for  temporary  stimulus  often 
does  much ;  but  when  I  see  the  daily  increasing  weakness, 
I  know  not  what  to  think.     I  fear  you  will  be  shocked  when 

you  see  Anne ;  but  be  on  your  guard,  dear  E ,  not  to 

express  your  feelings ;  indeed,  I  can  trust  both  your  self- 
possession  and  your  kindness.  I  wish  my  judgment  sanc- 
tioned the  step  of  going  to  Scarborough,  more  fully  than  it 
does.  You  ask  how  I  have  arranged  about  leaving  Papa. 
I  could  make  no  special  arrangement.     He  wishes  me  to 

go  with  Anne,  and  would  not  hear  of  Mr.  N -'s  coming, 

or  anything  of  that  kind ;  so  I  do  what  I  believe  is  for  the 
best,  and  leave  the  result  to  Providence." 

They  planned  to  rest  and  spend  a  night  at  York ;  and,  at 
Anne's  desire,  arranged  to  make  some  purchases  there. 
Charlotte  ends  the  letter  to  her  friend,  in  which  slie  tells  her 
all  this,  with — 


DEPARTURE  FOR  SCARBOROUGH.  85 

"May23r<L 
"  I  wish  it  seemed  less  like  a  dreary  mockery  in  us  tc 
talk  of  buying  bonnets,  &c.  Anne  was  very  ill  yesterday. 
She  had  difficulty  of  breathing  all  day,  even  when  sitting 
perfectly  still.  To-day  she  seems  better  again.  I  long  for 
the  moment  to  come  when  the  experiment  of  the  sea-air  will 
be  tried.  Will  it  do  her  good  ?  I  cannot  tell ;  I  can  only 
wish.  Oh  !  if  it  would  please  God  to  strengthen  and  revive 
Anne,  how  happy  we  might  be  together  :  His  will,  however, 
be  done ! " 

The  two  sisters  left  Haworth  on  Thursday,  May  24th. 
They  were  to  have  done  so  the  day  before,  and  had  mado 
an  appointment  with  their  friend  to  meet  them  at  the  Leeds 
Station,  in  order  that  they  might  all  proceed  together.  But 
on  "Wednesday  morning  Anne  was  so  ill,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible for  the  sisters  to  set  out ;  yet  they  had  no  means  ot 
letting  their  friend  know  of  this,  and  she  consequently  arrived 
at  the  Leeds  station  at  the  time  specified.  There  she  sate 
waiting  for  several  hours.  It  struck  her  as  strange  at  the 
time — and  it  almost  seems  ominous  to  her  fancy  now — that 
twice  over,  from  two  separate  arrivals  on  the  line  by  which 
she  was  expecting  her  friends,  coffins  were  carried  forth,  and 
placed  in  hearses  which  were  in  waiting  for  their  dead,  as  she 
was  waiting  for  one  in  four  days  to  become  so. 

The  next  day  s^e  <iould  bear  suspense  no  longer,  and  set 
out  for  Haworth,  reaching  there  just  in  time  to  carry  the 
feeble,  fainting  invalid  into  the  chaise  which  stood  at  the  gate 
to  take  them  down  to  Keighley.  The  servant  who  stood  at 
the  Parsonage  gates,  saw  Death  written  on  her  face,  and 
spoke  of  it.  Charlotte  saw  it  and  did  not  speak  of  it, — it 
would  have  been  giving  the  dread  too  distinct  a  form ;  and 
if  this  last  darling  yearned  for  the  change  to  Scarborough, 
go  she  should,  however  Charlotte's  heart  might  be  wrung  by 


80  LIFE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BKONTE. 

impending  fc^ar.  The  lady  who  accompanied  them,  Char- 
lotte's beloved  friend  of  more  than  twenty  years,  has  kindly 
written  out  for  me  the  following  account  of  the  journey— 
and  of  the  end. 

"  She  left  her  home  May  24th,  1849— died  May  28th. 
Her  life  was  calm,  quiet,  spiritual :  such  was  her  end. 
Through  the  trials  and  fatigues  of  the  journey,  she  evinced 
the  pious  courage  and  fortitude  of  a  martyr.  Dependence 
and  helplessness  were  ever  with  her  a  far  sorer  trial  than 
hard,  racking  pain. 

"  The  first  stage  of  our  journey  was  to  York ;  and  here 
the  dear  invalid  was  so  revived,  so  cheerful,  and  so  happy, 
we  drew  consolation,  and  trusted  that  at  least  temporary 
improvement  was  to  be  derived  from  the  change  which 
she  had  so  longed  for  and  her  friends  had  so  dreaded 
for  her. 

"  By  her  request  we  went  to  the  Minister,  and  to  her  it 
was  an  overpowering  pleasure ;  not  for  its  own  imposing  and 
impressive  grandeur  only,  but  because  it  brought  to  her  feud- 
ceptible  nature  a  vital  and  overwhelming  sense  of  omnipo- 
tence. She  said,  while  gazing  at  the  structure,  ^  If  finite 
power  can  do  this,  what  is  the  .  .  .  ? '  and  here  emotion 
stayed  her  speech^  and  she  was  hastened  to  a  less  excitin^^" 
scene. 

"  Her  weakness  of  body  was  great,  but  her  gratitude  for 
every  mercy  was  greater.  After  such  an  exertion  as  walk- 
ing to  her  bed-room,  she  would  clasp  her  hands  and  raise  her 
eyes  in  silent  thanks,  and  she  did  this  not  to  the  exclusion  of 
wonted  prayer,  for  that  too  was  performed  on  bended  knee, 
ere  she  accepted  the  rest  of  her  couch. 

*^  On  the  25th  we  arrived  at  Scarborough ;  our  dear  in 
valid  having,  during  the  journey,  directed  our  attention  to 
every  prospect  worthy  of  notice. 


LAST   DAYS   OF   ANNE   BRONTE.  87 

"On  the  26th  she  drove  on  the  sands  for  an  hour ;  and 
lest  the  poor  donkey  should  be  urged  by  its  driver  to  a 
greater  speed  than  her  tender  heart  thought  right,  she  took 
the  reins,  and  drove  herself.  When  joined  by  her  friends,  she 
was  charging  the  boy-master  of  the  donkey  to  treat  the  poor 
animal  well.  She  was  ever  fond  of  dumb  things,  and  would 
give  up  her  own  comfort  for  them. 

*'  On  Sunday,  the  27th,  she  wished  to  go  to  church,  and 
her  eye  brightened  with  the  thought  of  once  more  worship- 
ping her  God  amongst  her  fellow-creatures.  We  thought  it 
prudent  to  dissuade  her  from  the  attempt,  though  it  was 
evident  her  heart  was  longing  to  join  in  the  public  act  of 
devotion  and  praise. 

"  She  walked  a  little  in  the  afternoon,  and  meeting  with 
a  sheltered  and  comfortable  seat  near  the  beach,  she  begged 
we  would  leave  her,  and  enjoy  the  various  scenes  near  at 
hand,  which  were  new  to  us  but  familiar  to  her.  She  loved 
the  place,  and  wished  us  to  share  her  preference. 

^'  The  evening  closed  in  with  the  most  glorious  sunset  ever 
witnessed.  The  castle  on  the  cliff  stood  in  proud  glory  gilded 
by  the  rays  of  the  declining  sun.  The  distant  ships  glittered 
like  burnished  gold  ;  the  little  boats  near  the  beach  heaved 
on  the  ebbing  tide,  inviting  occupants.  The  view  was  grand 
beyond  description.  Anne  was  drawn  in  her  easy-chair  to 
the  window^  to  enjoy  the  scene  with  us.  Her  face  became 
illumined  almost  as  much  as  the  glorious  scene  she  gazed 
upon.  Little  was  said,  for  it  was  plain  that  her  thoughts 
were  driven  by  the  imposing  view  before  her  to  penetrate 
forwards  to  the  regions  of  unfading  glory.  She  again 
thought  of  public  worship,  and  wished  us  to  leave  her,  and 
join  those  who  were  assembled  at  the  House  of  God.  We 
declined,  gently  urging  the  duty  and  pleasure  of  staying 
with  her,  who  was  now  so  dear  and  so  feeble.  On  returning 
to  her  place  near  the  fire,  she  conversed  with  her  sister  upon 


88  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

the  propriety  of  returning  to  their  home.  She  did  not  wish 
it  for  her  own  sake,  she  said :  she  was  fearing  others  might 
suflfer  more  if  her  decease  occurred  where  she  was.  She 
probably  thought  the  task  of  accompanying  her  lifeless  re- 
mains on  a  long  journey  was  more  than  her  sister  could  bear 
— more  than  the  bereaved  father  could  bear,  were  she  borne 
home  another,  and  a  third  tenant,  of  the  family-vault  in  the 
short  space  of  nine  months. 

^'  The  night  was  passed  without  any  apparent  accession  of 
illness.  She  rose  at  seven  o'clock,  and  performed  most  of 
her  toilet  herself,  by  her  expressed  wish.  Her  sister  always 
yielded  such  points,  believing  it  was  the  truest  kindness  not 
to  press  inability  when  it  was  not  acknowledged.  Nothing 
occurred  to  excite  alarm  till  about  11  a.  m.  She  then  spoke 
of  feeling  a  chaiage.  '  She  believed  she  had  not  long  to  live. 
Could  she  reach  home  alive,  if  we  prepared  immediately  for 
departure  ?  '  A  physician  was  sent  for.  Her  address  to 
him  was  made  with  perfect  composure.  She  begged  him  to 
say  '  How  long  he  thought  she  might  live ; — ^not  to  fear 
speaking  the  truth,  for  she  was  not  afraid  to  die.'  The 
doctor  reluctantly  admitted  that  the  angel  of  death  was 
already  arrived,  and  that  life  was  ebbing  fast.  She  thanked 
him  for  his  truthfulness,  and  he  departed  to  come  again  very 
soon.  She  still  occupied  her  easy-chair,  looking  so  serene, 
so  reliant  :  there  was  no  opening  for  grief  as  yet,  though  all 
knew  the  separation  was  at  hand.  She  clasped  her  hands, 
and  reverently  invoked  a  blessing  from  on  high ;  first  upon 
her  sister,  then  upon  her  friend,  to  whom  she  said,  ^  Be 
a  sister  in  my  stead.  Give  Charlotte  as  much  of  your  com- 
pany as  you  can.'  She  then  thanked  each  for  her  kindness 
and  attention. 

"  Ere  long  the  restlessness  of  approaching  death  appeared, 
and  she  was  borne  to  the  sofa ;  on  being  asked  if  she  were 
easier,  she  looked  gratefully  at  her  questioner,  and  said,  *  It 


DEATH   OF   ANNE   BEONTE.  89 

is  not  you  who  can  give  me  ease,  but  soon  all  will  be  well, 
through  the  merits  of  our  Redeemer.'  Shortly  after  this, 
seeing  that  her  sister  could  hardly  restrain  her  grief,  sho 
said,  ^  Take  courage,  Charlotte ;  take  courage.'  Her  faith 
never  failed,  and  her  eye  never  dimmed  till  about  two  o'clock, 
when  she  calmly  and  without  a  sigh  passed  from  the  temporal 
to  the  eternal.  So  still,  and  so  hallowed  were  her  last  hours 
and  moments.  There  was  no  thought  of  assistance  or  of 
dread.  The  doctor  came  and  went  two  or  three  times.  The 
hostess  knew  that  death  was  near,  yet  so  little  was  the  house 
disturbed  by  the  presence  of  the  dying,  and  the  sorrow  of 
those  so  nearly  bereaved,  that  dinner  was  announced  as  ready, 
through  the  half-opened  door,  as  the  living  sister  was  closing 
the  eyes  of  the  dead  one.  She  could  now  no  more  stay  the 
welled-up  grief  of  her  sister  with  her  emphatic  and  dying 
*  Take  courage,'  and  it  burst  forth  in  brief  but  agonizing 
strength.  Charlotte's  affection,  however,  had  another  chan- 
nel, and  there  it  turned  in  thought,  in  care,  and  in  tenderness 
There  was  bereavement,  but  there  was  not  solitude  j — sym- 
pathy was  at  hand,  and  it  was  accepted.  Witli  calmness, 
came  the  consideration  of  the  removal  of  the  dear  remains  to 
their  home  resting-place.  This  melancholy  task,  however, 
was  never  performed ;  for  the  afflicted  sister  decided  to  lay 
the  flower  in  the  place  where  it  had  fallen.  She  believed 
that  to  do  so  would  accord  with  the  wishes  of  the  departed. 
She  had  no  preference  for  place.  She  thought  not  of  tht 
grave,  for  that  is  but  the  body's  goal,  but  of  all  that  is  be- 
yond it. 

"  Her  remains  rest, 

*  Where  the  south  sun  warms  the  now  dear  sod, 

*  Where  the  ocean  billows  lave  and  strike  the  steep  and  turf-covcred 

rock.*** 

Anne  died  on  the  Monciay.     On  the  Tuesday  Charlotte 


90  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE. 

wrote  to  her  father ;  but,  knowing  that  his  presence  was  re- 
quired for  some  annual  Church  solemnity  at  Haworth,  she 
informed  him  that  she  had  made  all  necessary  arrangements 
for  the  interment,  and  that  the  funeral  would  take  place  so 
soon,  that  he  could  hardly  arrive  in  time  for  it.  The  surgeon 
who  had  visited  Anne  on  the  day  of  her  death,  offered  his  at- 
tendance, hut  it  was  respectfully  declined. 

Mr.  Bronte  wrote  to  urge  Charlotte's  longer  stay  at  the 
sea-side.  Her  health  and  spirits  were  sorely  shaken;  and 
much  as  he  naturally  longed  to  see  his  only  remaining  child, 
he  felt  it  right  to  persuade  her  to  take,  with  her  friend,  a 
few  more  weeks'  change  of  scene, — though  even  that  could 
not  bring  change  of  thought.  Late  in  June  the  friends  re- 
turned homewards, — parting  rather  suddenly  (it  would  seem) 
from  each  other,  when  their  paths  diverged. 

"  July  1849. 
*^  I  intended  to  have  written  a  line  to  j^ou  to-day,  if  I  had 
not  received  yours.    We  did  indeed  part  suddenly ;  it  made  my 
heart  ache  that  we  were  severed  without  the  time  to  exchanore 

o 

a  word ;  and  yet  perhaps  it  was  better.  I  got  here  a  little 
before  eight  o'clock.  All  was  clean  and  bright  waiting  for 
me.  Papa  and  the  servants  were  well ;  and  all  received  me 
with  an  affection  which  should  have  consoled.  The  dogs 
seemed  in  strange  ecstasy.  I  am  certain  they  regarded  me 
as  the  harbinger  of  others.  The  dumb  creatures  thought 
that  as  I  was  returned,  those  who  had  been  so  long  absent 
were  not  far  behind. 

'^  I  left  Papa  soon,  and  went  into  the  dining-room  :  I  shut 
the  door — I  tried  to  be  glad  that  I  was  come  home.  I  have 
always  been  glad  before — except  once — even  then  I  was 
cheered.  But  this  time  joy  was  not  to  be  the  sensation.  I 
felt  that  the  house  was  all  silent — the  rooms  were  all  empty. 
I  remembered  where  the  three  were  laid — in  what  narrow 


RETUEN   TO   THE   HOUSE   OF   MOURNING.  91 

dark  dwellings— ^never  more  to  reappear  on  earth.  So  the 
sense  of  desolation  and  bitterness  took  possession  of  me.  The 
agony  that  was  to  he  under  gone ,  and  tvas  not  to  be  avoided, 
came  on.  I  underwent  it,  and  passed  a  dreary  evening  and 
night,  and  a  mournful  morrow  ;  to-day  I  am  better. . 

"  I  do  not  know  how  life  will  pass,  but  I  certainly  do  feel 
confidence  in  Him  who  has  upheld  me  hitherto.  Solitude  may 
be  cheered,  and  made  endurable  beyond  what  I  can  believe. 
The  great  trial  is  when  evening  closes  and  night  approaches. 
At  that  hour  we  used  to  assemble  in  the  dining-room — wo 
used  to  talk.  Now  I  sit  by  myself — necessarily  I  am  silent. 
I  cannot  help  thinking  of  their  last  days,  remembering  their 
sufierings,  and  what  they  said  and  did,  and  how  they  looked 
in  mortal  affliction.  Perhaps  all  this  will  become  less  poig- 
nant in  time. 

"  Let  me  thank  you  once  more,  dear  E ,  for  your 

kindness  to  me,  which  I  do  not  mean  to  forget.  How  did 
you  think  all  looking  at  your  home  ?  Papa  thought  me  a 
little  stronger  ;  he  said  my  eyes  were  not  so  sunken." 

"  July  14tli,  1849, 
"  I  do  not  much  like  giving  an  account  of  myself.  I  like 
better  to  go  out  of  myself,  and  talk  of  something  more  cheer- 
ful. My  cold,  wherever  I  got  it,  whether  at  Easton  or  else- 
where, is  not  vanished  yet.  It  began  in  my  head,  then  I  had 
a  sore  throat,  and  then  a  sore  chest,  with  a  cough,  but  only 
a  trifling  cough,  which  I  still  have  at  times.  The  pain  be- 
tween my  shoulders  likewise  amazed  me  much.  Say  nothing 
about  it,  for  I  confess  I  am  too  much  disposed  to  be  nervous 
This  nervousness  is  a  horrid  phantom.  I  dare  communicate 
no  ailment  to  Papa ;  his  anxiety  harasses  me  inexpressiblj". 

"  My  life  is  what  I  expected  it  to  be.  Sometimes  when 
I  wake  in  the  morning,  and  know  that  Solitude,  Kemembrance, 
and  Longing  are  to  be  almost  my  sole  companions  all  day 


92  LIFE   OF   CHAELOTTE   BKONTE. 

tlirough — tliat  at  night  I  shall  go  to  bed  with  them,  that  they 
will  long  keep  me  sleepless — that  next  morning  I  shall  wake 
to  them  again, — sometimes,  Nell,  I  have  a  heavy  heart  of  it. 
But  crushed  I  am  not,  yet ;  nor  robbed  of  elasticity,  nor  of 
hope,  nor  quite  of  endeavour.  I  have  some  strength  to  fight 
the  battle  of  life.  I  am  aware,  and  can  acknowledge,  I  have 
many  comforts,  many  mercies.  Still  I  can  get  on.  But  I 
do  hope  and  pray,  that  never  may  you,  or  any  one  I  love,  be 
placed  as  I  am.  To  sit  in  a  lonely  room — the  clock  ticking 
loud  through  a  still  house — and  have  open  before  the  mind's 
eye  the  record  of  the  last  year,  with  its  shocks,  suiferings, 
losses — is  a  trial. 

"  I  write  to  you  freely,  because  I  believe  you  will  hear 
me  with  moderation — that  you  will  not  take  alarm  or  think 
mo  in  any  way  worse  off  than  I  am." 


THE   CIIAEACTEPvS   IN   "  SHIRLEY."  83 


CHAPTER    IV. 

The  tale  of"  Shirley  "  had  been  begun  soon  after  the  pubii* 
cation  of  "  Jane  Eyre."  If  the  reader  will  refer  to  the  ac- 
count I  have  given  of  Miss  Bronte's  school-days  at  Roe  Head, 
he  will  there  see  how  every  place  surrounding  that  house 
was  connected  with  the  Luddite  riots,  and  will  learn  how  sto- 
ries and  anecdotes  of  that  time  were  rife  among  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  neighbouring  villages ;  how  Miss  Wooler  herself, 
and  the  elder  relations  of  most  of  her  schoolfellows,  must  have 
known  the  actors  in  those  grim  disturbances.  What  Char- 
lotte had  heard  there  as  a  girl  came  up  in  her  mind  when, 
as  a  woman,  she  sought  a  subject  for  her  next  work;  and  she 
sent  to  Leeds  for  a  file  of  the  "  Mercuries  "  of  1812,  '13,  and 
'14  ;  in  order  to  understand  the  spirit  of  those  eventful  times. 
She  was  anxious  to  write  of  things  she  had  known  and  seen ; 
and  among  the  number  waa  the  West  Yorkshire  character, 
for  which  any  tale  laid  among  the  Luddites  would  afford  full 
scope.  In  "  Shirley  "  she  took  the  idea  of  most  of  her  cha- 
racters from  life,  although  the  incidents  and  situations  were, 
of  course,  fictitious.  She  thought  that  if  these  last  were 
purely  imaginary,  she  might  draw  from  the  real  without  de- 
tection, but  in  this  she  was  mistaken ;  her  studies  were  too 
closely  accurate.  This  occasionally  led  her  into  difficulties. 
People  recognised  themselves,  or  were  recognised  by  others, 


94:  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

in  her  graphic  descriptions  of  their  personal  appearance,  and 
modes  of  action  and  turns  of  thought ;  though  thej  were 
placed  in  new  positions,  and  figured  away  in  scenes  far  dif- 
ferent to  those  in  which  their  actual  life  had  been  passed. 
Miss  Bronte  was  struck  by  the  force  or  peculiarity  of  the 
character  of  some  one  whom  she  knew  ;  she  studied  it,  and 
analysed  it  with  subtle  power;  and  having  traced  it  to  its  germ, 
Bhe  took  that  germ  as  the  nucleus  of  an  imaginary  character, 
and  worked  outwards ; — thus  reversing  the  process  of  analy- 
sat  ion,  and  unconsciously  reproducing  the  same  external  de- 
velopment. The  "  three  curates "  were  real  living  men^ 
haunting  Haworth  and  the  neighbouring  district ;  and  so  ob- 
tuse in  perception  that,  after  the  first  burst  of  anger  at  hav- 
ing their  ways  and  habits  chronicled  was  over,  they  rather 
enjoyed  the  joke  of  calling  each  other  by  the  names  she  had 
given  them.  "  Mrs.  Pryor  "  was  well  known  to  many  who 
loved  the  original  dearly.  The  whole  family  of  the  Yorkes 
were,  I  have  been  assured,  almost  daguerreotypes.  Indeed, 
Miss  Bronte  told  me  that,  before  publication,  she  had  sent 
those  parts  of  the  novel  in  which  these  remarkable  persons 
are  introduced,  to  one  of  the  sons ;  and  his  reply,  after  read- 
ing it,  was  simply  that  "  she  had  not  drawn  them  strong 
enough."  From  those  many-sided  sons,  I  suspect,  she  drew 
all  that  there  was  of  truth  in  the  characters  of  the  heroes  in 
her  first  two  works.  They,  indeed,  were  almost  the  only 
young  men  she  knew  intimately,  besides  her  brother.  There 
was  much  friendship,  and  still  more  confidence  between  the 
Bronte  family  and  them, — although  their  intercourse  was 
often  broken  and  irregular.  There  was  never  any  warmer 
feeling  on  either  side. 

The  character  of  Shirley  herself,  is  Charlotte's  represen- 
tation of  Emil^.  I  mention  this,  because  all  that  I,  a 
stranger,  have  been  able  to  learn  about  her  has  not  tended  to 
give  either  me,  or  my  readers,  a  pleasant  impression  of  her 


•^THE   VALLEY, OF   THE   SHADOW    OF   DEATH."         95 

33 ut  we  must  remember  how  little  we  are  acquainted  with 
her,  compared  to  that  sister,  who,  out  of  her  more  intimate 
knowledge,  says  that  she  "  was  genuinely  good,  and  truly 
great,"  and  who  tried  to  depict  her  character  in  Shirley 
Keeldar,  as  what  Emily  Bronte  would  have  been,  had  she 
been  placed  in  health  and  prosperity. 

Miss  Bronte  took  extreme  pains  with  "  Shirley."  She 
felt  that  the  fame  she  had  acquired  imposed  upon  her  a  dou- 
ble responsibility.  She  tried  to  make  her  novel  like  a  piece 
of  actual  life, — feeling  sure  that,  if  she  but  represented  the 
product  of  personal  experience  and  observation  truly,  good 
would  come  out  of  it  in  the  long  run.  She  carefully  studied 
the  different  reviews  and  criticisms  that  had  appeared  on 
^*  Jane  Eyre,"  in  hopes  of  extracting  precepts  and  advice 
from  which  to  profit. 

Down  into  the  very  midst  of  her  writing  came  the  bolts 
of  death.  She  had  nearly  finished  the  second  volume  of  her 
tale  when  Branwell  died, — after  him  Emily, — aftar  her 
Anne ; — the  pen,  laid  down  when  there  were  three  sisters 
living  and  loving,  was  taken  up  when  one  alone  remained. 
Well  might  she  call  the  first  chapter  that  she  wrote  after  this, 
"  The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death." 

I  knew  in  part  what  the  unknown  author  of  "  Shirley  " 
must  have  suffered,  when  I  read  those  pathetic  words  which 
occur  at  the  end  of  this  and  the  beginning  of  the  succeeding 
chapter : — 

"  Till  break  of  day,  she  wrestled  with  God  in  earnest 
prayer. 

"  Not  always  do  those  who  dare  such  divine  conflict  pre- 
vail. Night  after  night  the  sweat  of  agony  may  burst  dark 
on  the  forehead ;  the  supplicant  may  cry  for  mercy  with  that 
Boundless  voice  the  soul  utters  when  its  appeal  is  to  the  In- 
visible. *  Spare  my  beloved,'  it  may  implore.  *  Heal  my 
life's  life.     Bend  not  from  me  what  long  affection  entwines 


96  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

with  luy  whole  nature.  God  of  heaven — ^bend — hear — ^be 
element ! '  And  after  this  cry  and  strife,  the  snn  may  rise 
and  see  him  worsted.  That  opening  morn,  which  used  tc 
salute  him  with  the  whispers  of  zephyrs,  the  carol  of  sky- 
larks, may  breathe,  as  its  first  accents,  from  the  dear  lips 
which  colour  and  heat  have  quitted, — ^  Oh  !  I  have  had  a 
suffering  night.  This  morning  I  am  worse.  I  have  tried 
to  rise.  I  cannot.  Dreams  I  am  unused  to,  have  troubled 
me.' 

"  Then  the  watcher  approaches  the  patient's  pillow,  and 
sees  a  new  and  strange  moulding  of  the  familiar  features, 
feels  at  once  that  the  insufferable  moment  draws  nigh,  knows 
that  it  is  God's  will  his  idol  should  be  broken,  and  bends  his 
head,  and  subdues  his  soul  to  the  sentence  he  cannot  avert, 
and  scarce  can  bear 

"  No  piteous,  unconscious  moaning  sound — which  so 
wastes  our  strength  that,  even  if  we  have  sworn  to  be  firm, 
a  rush  of  unconquerable  tears  sweeps  away  the  oath — ^pre- 
ceded her  waking.  No  space  of  deaf  apathy  followed.  The 
first  words  spoken  were  not  those  of  one  becoming  estranged 
from  this  world,  and  already  permitted  to  stray  at  times  into 
realms  foreign  to  the  living." 

She  went  on  with  her  work  steadily.  But  it  was  dreary 
to  write  without  any  one  to  listen  to  the  progress  of  her  tale, 
— to  find  fault  or  to  sympathise, — while  pacing  the  length  of 
the  parlour  in  the  evenings,  as  in  the  days  that  were  no 
more.  Three  sisters  had  done  this, — then  two,  the  othei 
sister  dropping  off  from  the  walk, — and  now  one  was  left 
desolate,  to  listen  for  echoing  steps  that  never  came, — and  to 
hear  the  wind  sobbing  at  the  windows,  with  an  almost  artic- 
ulate sound. 

But  she  wrote  on,  struggling  against  her  own  feelings  of 
illness ;  "  continually  recurring  feelings  of  slight  cold ;  slight 


ILLNESS   AND   ANXIETY.  97 

soreness  in  the  throat  and  chest,  of  which,  do  what  I  will,'* 
she  writes,  "  I  cannot  get  rid." 

In  August  there  arose  a  new  cause  for  anxiety,  happily 
but  temporary. 

"  Aug.  23rd,  1849. 

"  Papa  has  not  been  well  at  all  lately.  He  has  ha 
another  attack  of  bronchitis.  I  felt  very  uneasy  about  him 
for  some  days — ^more  wretched  indeed  than  I  care  to  tell 
you.  After  what  has  happened,  one  trembles  at  any  appear- 
ance of  sickness ;  and  when  anything  ails  Papa,  I  feel  too 
keenly  that  he  is  the  last — the  only  near  and  dear  relative  I 
have  in  the  world.  Yesterday  and  to-day  he  has  seemed 
much  better,  for  which  I  am  truly  thankful 

"  From  what  you  say  of  Mr. ,  I  think  I  should  like 

him  very  much.     wants  shaking  to  be  put  out  about  his 

appearance.  What  does  it  matter  whether  her  husband  dines 
in  a  dress-coat  or  a  market-coat,  provided  there  be  worth, 
and  honesty,  and  a  clean  shirt  underneath  ?  " 

«  Sept.  lOth,  1849. 
"  My  piece  of  work  is  at  last  finished,  and  despatched  to 
its  destination.  You  must  now  tell  me  when  there  is  a 
chance  of  your  being  able  to  come  here.  I  fear  it  will  now 
be  difficult  to  arrange,  as  it  is  so  near  the  marriage-day. 
Note  well,  it  would  spoil  all  my  pleasure,  if  you  put  yourself 
or  any  one  else  to  inconvenience  to  come  to  Haworth.  But 
when  it  is  convenient^  I  shall  be  truly  glad  to  see  you.  .  .  . 
Papa,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  is  better,  though  not  strong. 
He  is  often  troubled  with  a  sensation  of  nausea.  My  cold  is 
very  much  less  troublesome,  I  am  sometimes  quite  free  from 
it.  A  few  days  since,  I  had  a  severe  bilious  attack,  the 
consequence  of  sitting  too  closely  to  my  writing  ;  but  it  is 
gone  now.     It  is  the  first  from  which  I  have  suffered  since 

VOL.   IL — 5 


98  LMTE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

my  return  from  the  sea-side.  I  had  them  every  month  he 
fore." 

"  Sept  13th,  1849. 
"  If  duty  and  the  well-being  of  others  require  that  you 
should  stay  at  home,  I  cannot  permit  myself  to  complain, 
still,  I  am  very,  very  sorry  that  circumstances  will  not  per- 
mit us  to  meet  just  now.     I  would  without  hesitation  come 

to ,  if  Papa  were  stronger ;  but  uncertain  as  are  both 

his  health  and  spirits,  I  could  not  possibly  prevail  on  myself 
to  leave  him  now.  Let  us  hope  that  when  we  do  see  each 
other,  our  meeting  will  be  all  the  more  pleasurable  for  be- 
ing delayed.  Dear  E ,  you  certainly  have  a  heavy  bur- 
den laid  on  your  shoulders,  but  such  burdens,  if  well  borne, 
benefit  the  character ;  only  we  must  take  the  greatest^  closest, 
most  watchful  care  not  to  grow  proud  of  our  strength,  in 
case  we  should  be  enabled  to  bear  up  under  the  trial.  That 
pride,  indeed,  would  be  a  sign  of  radical  weakness.  The 
strength,  if  strength  we  have,  is  certainly  never  in  our  own 
selves ;  it  is  given  us." 

TO  W.  S.  WILLIAMS,  ESQ. 

"  Sept.  21st,  1849. 

"  My  dear  Sir, — I  am  obliged  to  you  for  preserving  my 
secret,  being  at  least  as  anxious  as  ever  (more  anxious  I  can- 
not well  be)  to  keep  quiet.  You  asked  me  in  one  of  your 
letters  lately,  whether  I  thought  I  should  escape  identifica- 
tion in  Yorkshire.  I  am  so  little  known,  that  I  think  1 
shall.  Besides,  the  book  is  far  less  founded  on  the  Real^ 
than  perhaps  appears.  It  would  be  difficult  to  explain  to 
you  how  little  actual  experience  I  have  had  of  life,  how  few 
persons  I  have  known,  and  how  very  few  have  known  me. 

"  As  an  instance  how  the  characters  have  been  managed 


THE   CHARACTEKS   IN    "  SHUBLEY.''  99 

take  that  of  Mr.  Helstone.  If  this  character  had  an  original, 
it  was  in  the  person  of  a  clergyman  who  died  some  years 
since  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty.  I  never  saw  him  ex- 
cept  once — at  the  consecration  of  a  church — when  I  was  a 
child  of  ten  years  old.  I  was  then  struck  with  his  appear- 
ance, and  stern,  martial  air.  At  a  subsequent  period,  I 
heard  him  talked  about  in  the  neighbourhood  where  he  had 
resided:  some  mention  him  with  enthusiasm — others  with 
detestation.  I  listened  to  various  anecdotes,  balanced  evi- 
dence against  evidence,  and  drew  an  inference.  The  origi- 
nal of  Mr.  Hall  I  have  seen ;  he  knows  me  slightly ;  but  he 
would  as  soon  think  I  had  closely  observed  him  or  taken  him 
for  a  character — ^he  would  as  soon,  indeed  suspect  me  of 
writing  a  book — a  novel — as  he  would  his  dog,  Prince.  Mar- 
garet Hall  called  '  Jane  Eyre '  a  *  wicked  book,'  on  the  au- 
thority of  the  '  Quarterly ;  '  an  expression  which,  coming 
from  her,  I  will  here  confess,  struck  somewhat  deep.  It 
opened  my  eyes  to  the  harm  the  *  Quarterly '  had  done. 
Margaret  would  not  have  called  it  '  wicked,'  if  she  had  not 
been  told  so. 

"  No  matter, — whether  known  or  unknown — misjudged, 
or  the  contrary, — I  am  resolved  not  to  write  otherwise.  I 
shall  bend  as  my  powers  tend.  The  two  human  beings  who 
understood  me,  and  whom  I  understood,  are  gone :  I  have 
some  that  love  me  yet,  and  whom  I  love,  without  expecting,  or 
having  a  right  to  expect,  that  they  shall  perfectly  understand 
me.  I  am  satisfied ;  but  I  must  have  my  own  way  in  the 
matter  of  writing.  The  loss  of  what  we  possess  nearest  and 
dearest  to  us  in  this  world,  produces  an  effect  upon  the 
character  :  we  search  out  what  we  have  yet  left  that  can  sup- 
port, and,  when  found,  we  cling  to  it  with  a  hold  of  new- 
Btrung  tenacity.  The  faculty  of  imagination  lifted  me  when 
I  was  sinking,  three  months  ago ;  its  active  exercise  has 
kept  my  head  above  water  since ;  its  results  cheer  me  now, 


100  LITE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BRONTE. 

for  I  feel  they  have  enabled  me  to  give  pleasure  to  others. 
I  am  thankful  to  God,  who  gave  me  the  faculty  ;  and  it  is 
for  me  a  part  of  my  religion  to  defend  this  gift,  and  to  profit 
by  its  possession.     Yours  sincerely, 

"  Chaklotte  Bronte." 

At  the  time  when  this  letter  was  written,  both  Tabby 
and  the  young  servant  whom  they  had  to  assist  her  were  ill 
in  bed;  and,  with  the  exception  of  occasional  aid,  Miss 
Bronte  had  all  the  household  work  to  perform,  as  well  as  to 
nurse  the  two  invalids. 

The  serious  illness  of  the  younger  servant  was  at  its 
height,  when  a  cry  from  Tabby  called  Miss  Bronte  into  the 
kitchen,  and  she  found  the  poor  old  woman  of  eighty  laid  on 
the  floor,  with  her  head  under  the  kitchen-grate;  she  had 
fallen  from  her  chair  in  attempting  to  rise.  When  I  saw 
her,  two  years  later,  she  described  to  me  the  tender  care 
which  Charlotte  had  taken  of  her  at  this  time  ;  and  wound 
up  her  account  of  "  how  her  own  mother  could  not  have  had 
more  thought  for  her  nor  Miss  Bronte  had,"  by  saying, 
"  Eh  !  she's  a  good  one — she  is  I " 

But  there  was  one  day  when  the  strung  nerves  gave  way 
— when,  as  she  says,  "  I  fairly  broke  down  for  ten  minutes  ; 
sat  and  cried  like  a  fool.  Tabby  could  neither  stand  nor 
walk.  Papa  had  just  been  declaring  that  Martha  was  in  im- 
minent danger.  I  was  myself  depressed  with  headache  and 
Bickness.  That  day  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do,  or  where  to 
turn.  Thank  God !  Martha  is  now  convalescent :  Tabby,  I 
trust,  will  be  better  soon.  Papa  is  pretty  well.  I  have  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  my  publishers  are  delighted  with 
what  I  sent  them.  This  supports  me.  But  life  is  a  battle. 
May  we  all  be  enabled  to  fight  it  well !" 

The  kind  friend,  to  whom  she  thus  wrote,  saw  how  the 
poor  over-taxed  system  needed  bracing,  and  accordingly  sent 


THE   SHOWEK-BATII.  101 

her  a  sIiower-Latli — a  thing  for  which  she  had  long  been 
wishing.     The  receipt  of  it  was  acknowledged  as  follows  : — 

**  Sept.  28th,  1849. 

"...  Martha  is  now  almost  well,  and  Tabby  much  better. 
A  huge  monster-package,  from  '  Nelson,  Leeds,'  came  yester- 
day. You  want  chastising  roundly  and  soundly.  Such  are 
the  thanks  you  get  for  all  your  trouble.  .  .  •  Whenever  you 
come  to  Haworth,  you  shall  certainly  have  a  thorough  drench- 
ing in  your  own  shower-bath.  I  have  not  yet  unpacked  the 
wretch. — "  Yours,  as  you  deserve, 

"  C.  B." 

There  was  misfortune  of  another  kind  impending  over 
her.  There  were  some  railway  shares,  which,  so  early  as 
1846,  she  had  told  Miss  Wooler  she  wished  to  sell,  but  had 
kept  because  she  could  not  persuade  her  sisters  to  look  upon 
the  affair  as  she  did,  and  so  preferred  running  the  risk  of  loss, 
to  hurting  Emily's  feelings  by  acting  in  opposition  to  her 
opinion.  The  depreciation  of  these  same  shares  was  now 
verifying  Charlotte's  soundness  of  judgment.  They  were 
in  the  York  and  North- Midland  Company,  which  was  one  of 
Mr.  Hudson's  pet  lines  and  had  the  full  benefit  of  his  pecu- 
liar system  of  management.  She  applied  to  her  friend  and 
publisher,  Mr.  Smith,  for  information  on  the  subject;  and  the 
following  letter  is  in  answer  to  his  reply : — 

'*  Oct.  4th,  1849. 

"  My  dear  Sir, — I  must  not  thank  you  for,  but  acknow- 
ledge the  receipt  of  your  letter.  The  business  is  certainly 
very  bad ;  worse  than  I  thought,  and  much  worse  than  my 
father  has  any  idea  of.  In  fact,  the  little  railway  property 
I  possessed,  according  to  original  prices,  formed  already  a 


102  LIFE  OF  CHAKLOTTE  BKONTE. 

small  competency  for  me,  with  my  views  and  habits.  NoWj 
scarcely  any  portion  of  it  can,  with  security,  be  calculated 
upon.  I  must  open  this  view  of  the  case  to  my  father  by 
degrees ;  and,  meanwhile  wait  patiently  till  I  see  how  affairs 

are  likely  to  turn However  the  matter  may  terminate, 

I  ought  perhaps  to  be  rather  thankful  than  dissatisfied. 
When  I  look  at  my  own  case,  and  compare  it  with  that  of 
thousands  besides,  I  scarcely  see  room  for  a  murmur.  Many, 
very  many,  are  by  the  late  strange  railway  system  deprived 
almost  of  their  daily  bread.  Such  then  as  have  only  lost  pro- 
vision laid  up  for  the  future,  should  take  care  how  they  com- 
plain. The  thought  that  ^  Shirley '  has  given  pleasure  at  Corn- 
hill,  yields  me  much  quiet  comfort.  No  doubt,  however,  you 
are,  as  I  am,  prepared  for  critical  severity;  but  I  have  good 
hopes  that  the  vessel  is  sufficiently  sound  of  construction  to 
weather  a  gale  or  two,  and  to  make  a  prosperous  voyage  for 
you  in  the  end." 

Towards  the  close  of  October  in  this  year,  she  went  to  pay 
a  visit  to  her  friend ;  but  her  enjoyment  in  the  holiday,  which 
she  had  so  long  promised  herself  when  her  work  was  com- 
pleted, was  deadened  by  a  continual  feeling  of  ill  health ; 
either  the  change  of  air  or  the  foggy  weather  produced  con- 
stant irritation  at  ^iie  chest.  Moreover,  she  was  anxious 
about  the  impression  which  her  second  work  would  produce 
on  the  public  mind.  For  obvious  reasons,  an  author  is  more 
susceptible  to  opinions  pronounced  on  the  book  which  follows 
a  great  success,  than  he  has  ever  been  before.  Whatever  be 
the  value  of  fame,  he  has  it  in  his  possession,  and  is  not  wil- 
ling to  have  it  dimmed  or  lost. 

"  Shirley  "  was  published  on  October  26th. 

When  it  came  out,  but  before  reading  it,  Mr.  Lewes  wrote 
to  tell  her  of  his  intention  of  reviewing  it  in  the  *' Edin- 
burgh." Her  correspondence  with  him  had  ceased  for  some 
time  :  much  had  occurred  since. 


LETTER   TO    G.    H.    LEWES,   ESQ.  103 

TO    G.    H.    LEWES,    ESQ. 

Nov.  1st,  1849. 
"  My  dear  Sir, — It  is  about  a  year  and  a  half  since  you 
wrote  to  me;  but  it  seems  a  longer  period,  because  since 
tlien  it  has  been  my  lot  to  pass  some  black  milestones  in  the 
journey  of  life.  Since  then  there  have  been  intervals  when  I 
Lave  ceased  to  care  about  literature  and  critics  and  fame ;  when 
I  have  lost  sight  of  whatever  was  prominent  in  my  thoughts 
at  the  first  publication  of  ^  Jane  Eyre  ;  '  but  now  I  want  these 
things  to  come  back  vividly,  if  possible  :  consequently,  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  receive  your  note.  I  wish  you  did  not  think 
me  a  woman.  I  wish  all  reviewers  believed  ^  Currer  Bell '  to 
be  a  man ;  they  would  be  more  just  to  him.  You  will,  I 
know,  keep  measuring  me  by  some  standard  of  what  you  deem 
becoming  to  my  sex ;  where  I  am  not  what  you  consider 
graceful,  you  will  condemn  me.  All  mouths  will  be  open 
against  that  first  chapter ;  and  that  first  chapter  is  true  as 
the  Bible,  nor  is  it  exceptionable.  Come  what  will,  I  can- 
not, when  I  write,  think  always  of  myself  and  of  what  is  ele- 
gant and  charming  in  feminity;  it  is  not  on  those  terms,  or 
with  such  ideas,  I  ever  took  pen  in  hand  :  and  if  it  is  only 
ou  such  terms  my  writing  will  be  tolerated,  I  shall  pass  away 
from  the  public  and  trouble  it  no  more.  Out  of  obscurity  I 
came,  to  obscurity  I  can  easily  return.  Standing  afar  ofi*,  I 
now  watch  to  see  what  will  become  of  *  Shirley.'  My  expec- 
tations are  very  low,  and  my  anticipations  somewhat  sad  and 
bitter ;  still,  I  earnestly  conjure  you  to  say  honestly  what 
you  think ;  flattery  would  be  worse  than  vain ;  there  is  no 
consolation  in  flattery.  As  for  condemnation  I  cannot,  on 
reflection,  see  why  I  should  much  fear  it ;  there  is  no  one  but 
myself  to  suffer  therefrom,  and  both  happiness  and  suffering 
in  this  life  soon  pass  away.  Wishing  you  all  success  in  your 
Scottish  expedition, — I  am,  dear  Sir,  yours  sincerely, 

"  C.  Bell." 


104  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

Miss  Bronte,  as  we  have  seen,  had  been  as  anxious  as  evel 
to  preserve  her  incognito  in  "  Shirley."  She  even  fancied 
that  there  were  fewer  traces  of  a  female  pen  in  it  than  in 
"  Jane  Eyre  ;  "  and  thus,  when  the  earliest  reviews  were  pub- 
lished, and  asserted  that  the  mysterious  writer  must  be  a 
woman,  she  was  much  disappointed.  She  especially  disliked 
the  lowering  of  the  standard  by  which  to  judge  a  work  of 
fiction,  if  it  proceeded  from  a  feminine  pen  ;  and  praise  min- 
gled with  pseudo-gallant  allusions  to  her  sex,  mortified  her 
far  more  than  actual  blame. 

But  the  secret,  so  jealously  preserved,  was  oozing  out  at 
last.  The  publication  of  "  Shirley  "  seemed  to  ^x  the  con- 
viction that  the  writer  was  an  inhabitant  of  the  district  where 
the  story  was  laid.  And  a  clever  Haworth  man,  who  had 
somewhat  risen  in  the  world,  and  gone  to  settle  in  Liverpool, 
read  the  novel,  and  was  struck  with  some  of  the  names  of 
places  mentioned,  and  knew  the  dialect  in  which  parts  of  it 
were  written.  He  became  convinced  that  it  was  the  produc- 
tion of  some  one  in  Haworth.  But  he  could  not  imagine 
who  in  that  village  could  have  written  such  a  work  except 
Miss  Bronte.  Proud  of  his  conjecture,  he  divulged  the  sus- 
picion (which  was  almost  certainty)  in  the  columns  of  a 
Liverpool  paper,  thus  the  heart  of  the  mystery  came 
slowly  creeping  out;  and  a  visit  to  London,  which  Miss 
Bronte  paid  towards  the  end  of  the  year  1849,  made  it  dis- 
tinctly known.  She  had  been  all  along  on  most  happy  terms 
with  her  publishers ;  and  their  kindness  had  beguiled  some 
of  those  weary,  solitary  hours  which  had  so  often  occurred  of 
late,  by  sending  for  her  perusal  boxes  of  books  more  suited 
to  her  tastes  than  any  she  could  procure  from  the  circulating 
library  at  Keighley.  She  often  writes  such  sentences  as  the 
following,  in  her  letters  to  Cornhill : — 

"  I  was  indeed  Tcry  much  interested  in  the  books  you 


THE   CHAEACTEES   IN    "  SIIIELEY."  105 

sent.  *  Eckermann's  Conversations  with  Goethe,'  *  Guesses 
at  Truth,'  '  Friends  in  Council,'  and  the  little  work  on  Eng- 
lish social  life,  pleased  me  particularly,  and  the  last  not 
least.  "We  sometimes  take  a  partiality  to  books  as  to  char- 
acters, not  on  account  of  any  brilliant  intellect  or  striking 
peculiarity  they  boast,  but  for  the  sake  of  something  good, 
delicate,  and  genuine.  I  thought  that  small  book  the  pro- 
duction of  a  lady,  and  an  amiable,  sensible  woman,  and  I 
liked  it.  You  must  not  think  of  selecting  any  works  for  me 
yet ;  my  stock  is  still  far  from  exhausted. 

*'  I  accept  your  offer  respecting  the  '  Athenaeum ; '  it  is  a 
paper  I  should  like  much  to  see,  providing  that  you  can  send 
it  without  trouble.     It  shall  be  punctually  returned." 

In  a  letter  to  her  friend  she  complains  of  the  feelings  of 
illness  from  which  she  was  seldom  or  never  free. 

''Nov.  16th.  1849. 
"  You   are   not   to   suppose   any   of  the    characters  m 

*  Shirley  '  intended  as  literal  portraits.  It  would  not  suit 
the  rules  of  art,  nor  of  my  own  feelings,  to  write  in  that 
style.  We  only  suffer  reality  to  suggest^  never  to  dictate. 
The  heroines  are  abstractions,  and  the  heroes  also.  Qualities 
I  have  seen,  loved,  and  admired,  are  here  and  there  put  in 
as  decorative  gems,  to  be  preserved  in  that  setting.  Since 
you  say  you  could  recognise  the  originals  of  all  except  the 
heroines,  pray  whom  did  you  suppose  the  two  Moores  to  re- 
present ?     I  send  you  a  couple  of  reviews  :  the  one  is  in  the 

*  Examiner,'  written  by  Albany  Fonblanque,  who  is  called 
the  most  brilliant  political  writer  of  the  day,  a  man  whose 
dictum  is  much  thought  of  in  London.      The  other,  In  the 

*  Standard  of  Freedom,'  is  written  by  William  Howitt,  a 
Quaker  !  .  .  .  I  should  be  pretty  well,  if  it  were  not  for 
headaches  and  indigestion.  My  chest  has  been  better 
lately." 

VOL.  n.—S"** 


106  LIFE  OF  CHAKLOTTE  BRONTE. 

In  consequence  of  this  long-protracted  state  of  languor 
headache,  and  sickness,  to  which  the  slightest  exposure  to 
cold  added  sensations  of  hoarseness  and  soreness  at  the  chest, 
she  determined  to  take  the  evil  in  time,  as  much  for  her 
father's  sake  as  for  her  own,  and  to  go  up  to  London  and 
consult  some  physician  there.  It  was  not  her  first  intention 
to  visit  anywhere  ;  but  the  friendly  urgency  of  her  publishers 
prevailed,  and  it  was  decided  that  she  was  to  become  the 
guest  of  Mr.  Smith.  Before  she  went,  she  wrote  two  charac- 
teristic letters  about  ^'  Shirley,"  from  which  I  shall  take  a 
few  extracts. 

"  ^  Shirley'  makes  her  way.  The  reviews  shower  in  fast 
....  The  best  critique  which  has  yet  appeared  is  in  the 
•  Revue  des  deux  Mondes,'  a  sort  of  European  Cosmopolitan 
periodical,  whose  head-quarters  are  at  Paris.  Comparatively 
few  reviewers,  even  in  their  praise,  evince  a  just  comprehen- 
sion of  the  author's  meaning.  Eugene  Forsarde,  the  re- 
viewer in  question,  follows  Currer  Bell  through  every  wind- 
ing, discerns  every  point,  discriminates  every  shade,  proves 
himself  master  of  the  subject,  and  lord  of  the  aim.  With 
that  man  I  would  shake  hands,  if  I  saw  him.  I  would  say, 
^  You  know  me,  Monsieur ;  I  shall  deem  it  an  honour  to 
know  you.'  I  could  not  say  so  much  of  the  mass  of  the 
London  critics.  Perhaps  I  could  not  say  so  much  to  five 
hundred  men  and  women  in  all  the  millions  of  Great  Britain. 
That  matters  little.  My  own  conscience  I  satisfy  first;  and 
having  done  that,  if  I  further  content  and  delight  a  Forsarde, 
a  Fonblanque,  and  a  Thackeray,  my  ambition  has  had  ita 
ration  ;  it  is  fed  ;  it  lies  down  for  the  present  satisfied ;  my 
feculties  have  wrought  a  day's  task,  and  earned  a  day's  wages. 
I  am  no  teacher ;  to  look  on  me  in  that  light  is  to  mistake 
Hie.  To  teach  is  not  my  vocation.  What  I  am,  it  is  useless 
to  say.    Those  whom  it  concerns  feel  and  find  it  out.     To  all 


THE   KEYIEW5   OF    ^SHIRLEY."  107 

others  I  wish  only  to  be  an   obscure,  steady-going,  private 

character.       To  you,   dear  E ,  I  wish  to  be  a  sincere 

friend.     Give  me  your  faithful  regard  ;  I  willingly  dispense 
with  admiration." 

*'Nov.  26th. 
"  It  is  like  you  to  pronounce  the  reviews  not  good 
enough,  and  belongs  to  that  part  of  your  character  which 
will  not  permit  you  to  bestow  unqualified  approbation  on  any 
dress,  decoration,  &c.,  belonging  to  you.  Know  that  the  re- 
views are  superb  ;  and  were  I  dissatisfied  with  them,  I  should 
be  a  conceited  ape.  Nothing  higher  is  ever  ^2i\^^  from,  per- 
fectly disinterested  motives^  of  any  living  authors.  If  all 
be  well,  I  go  to  London  this  week ;  Wednesday,  I  think. 
The  dressmaker  has  done  my  small  matters  pretty  well,  but 
I  wish  you  could  have  looked  them  over,  and  given  a  dic- 
tum.     I  insisted  on  the  dresses  being  made  quite  plainly." 

At  the  end  of  November  she  went  up  to  the  ^'  big  Baby 
Ion,"  and  was  immediately  plunged  into  what  appeared  to 
her  a  whirl ;  for  changes,  and  scenes,  and  stimulus  which 
would  have  been  a  trifle  to  others,  were  much  to  her.  As 
was  always  the  case  with  strangers,  she  was  a  little  afraid  at 
first  of  the  family  into  which  she  was  now  received,  fancying 
that  the  ladies  looked  on  her  with  a  mixture  of  respect  and 
alarm ;  but  iu  a  few  days,  if  this  state  of  feeling  ever  existed, 
her  simple,  shy,  quiet  manners,  her  dainty  personal  and 
household  ways,  had  quite  done  away  with  it,  and  she  says 
that  she  thinks  they  begin  to  like  her,  and  that  she  likes 
them  much,  for  "  kindness  is  a  potent  heartwinner."  She 
had  stipulated  that  she  should  not  bo  expected  to  see  many 
people.  The  recluse  life  she  had  led,  was  the  cause  of  a 
nervous  shrinking  from  meeting  any  fresh  face,  which  lasted 
all  her  life  long.     Still,  she  longed  to  have  an  idea  of  the 


108  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

personal  appearance  and  manners  of  some  of  tliose  whose 
writings  or  letters  had  interested  her.  Mr.  Thackeray  was 
accordingly  invited  to  meet  her,  but  it  so  happened  that  she 
had  been  out  for  the  greater  part  of  the  morning,  and,  in 
consequence,  missed  the  luncheon  hour  at  her  friend's  house. 
This  brought  on  a  severe  and  depressing  headache  in  one  ac- 
customed to  the  early,  regular  hours  of  a  Yorkshire  Parson- 
age ,  besides,  the  excitement  of  meeting,  hearing,  and  sitting 
next  a  man  to  whom  she  looked  up  with  such  admiration  as 
ghe  did  to  the  author  of  "  Vanity  Fair,"  was  of  itself  over- 
powering to  her  frail  nerves.  She  writes  about  this  dinner  as 
follows : — 

*'Dec.  lOth,  1849. 
"  As  to  being  happy,  I  am  under  scenes  and  circum- 
stances of  excitement ;  but  I  suffer  acute  pain  sometimes, — 
mental  pain,  I  mean.  At  the  moment  Mr.  Thackeray  pre- 
sented himself,  I  was  thoroughly  faint  from  inanition,  having 
eaten  nothing  since  a  very  slight  breakfast,  and  it  was  then 
seven  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Excitement  and  exhaustion 
made  savage  work  of  me  that  evening.  What  he  thought  of 
me  I  cannot  tell." 

She  told  me  how  difficult  she  found  it,  this  first  time  of 
meeting  Mr.  Thackeray,  to  decide  whether  he  was  speaking 
in  jest  or  in  earnest,  and  that  she  had  (she  believed)  com- 
pletely misunderstood  an  inquiry  of  his,  made  on  the  gentle- 
men's coming  into  the  drawing-room.  He  asked  her  "  if  she 
had  perceived  the  secret  of  their  cigars ;  "  to  which  she  replied 
literally,  discovering  in  a  minute  afterwards,  by  the  smile 
on  several  faces,  that  he  was  alluding  to  a  passage  in  "  Jan(? 
Eyre."  Her  hosts  took  pleasure  in  showing  her  the  sights  oi' 
London,  On  one  of  the  days  which  had  been  set  apart  foi 
some  of  these  pleasant  excursions,  a  severe  review  of  ^'  Shir 


SEVERE   REVIEW   OF   '^SHIRLEY."  109 

ley  "  was  published  in  the  "  Times."  She  had  heard  that 
her  book  would  be  noticed  by  it,  and  guessed  that  there  was 
some  particular  reason  for  the  care  with  which  her  hosts 
mislaid  it  on  that  particular  morning.  She  told  them  that 
she  was  aware  why  she  might  not  see  the  paper.  Mrs. 
Smith  at  once  admitted  that  her  conjecture  was  right,  and 
aid  that  they  had  wished  her  to  go  to  the  day's  engagement 
Defore  reading  it.  But  she  quietly  persisted  in  her  request 
to  be  allowed  to  have  the  paper.  Mrs.  Smith  took  her 
work,  and  tried  not  to  observe  the  countenance,  which  the 
other  tried  to  hide  between  the  large  sheets ;  but  she  could 
not  help  becoming  aware  of  tears  stealing  down  the  face  and 
dropping  on  the  lap.  The  first  remark  Miss  Bronte  made 
was  to  express  her  fear  lest  so  severe  a  notice  should  check 
the  sale  of  the  book,  and  injuriously  affect  her  publishers. 
Wounded  as  she  was,  her  first  thought  was  for  others.  Later 
on  (I  think  that  very  afternoon)  Mr.  Thackeray  called ;  she 
suspected  (she  said)  that  he  came  to  see  how  she  bore  the 
attack  on  "  Shirley ;  "  but  she  had  recovered  her  composure, 
and  conversed  very  quietly  with  him  :  he  only  learnt  from 
the  answer  to  his  direct  inquiry  that  she  had  read  the 
"  Times'  "  article.  She  acquiesced  in  the  recognition  of 
herself  as  the  authoress  of  "  Jane  Eyre,"  because  she  per- 
ceived that  there  were  some  advantages  to  be  derived  from 
dropping  her  pseudonym.  One  result  was  an  acquaintance 
with  Miss  Martineau.  She  had  sent  her  the  novel  just  pub- 
lished, with  a  curious  note,  in  which  Currer  Bell  offered  a 
copy  of  "  Shirley "  to  Miss  Martineau^  as  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  gratification  he  had  received  from  her  works 
From  "  Deerbrook  "  he  had  derived  a  new  and  keen  plea- 
sure, and  experienced  a  genuine  benefit.  In  his  mind 
"  Deerbrook,"  &c. 

Miss   Martineau,  in   acknowledging    this  note  and  the 
copy  of  '^  Shirley,"  dated  her  letter  from  a  friend's  house 


110  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

in  the  nelglibourliood  of  Mr.  Smitli's  residence ;  and  wlien 
a  week  or  two  afterwards,  Miss  Bronte  found  Low  near  she 
was  to  her  correspondent,  she  wrote,  m  the  name  of  Currer 
Bell,  to  propose  a  visit  to  her.  Six  o'clock,  on  a  certain 
Sunday  afternoon  (Dec.  10th),  was  the  time  appointed. 
Miss  Martineau's  friends  had  invited  the  unknown  Currer 
Bell  to  their  early  tea;  they  were  ignorant  whether  the 
name  was  that  of  a  man  or  a  woman ;  and  had  had  various 
conjectures  as  to  sex,  age,  and  appearance.  Miss  Martineau 
had,  indeed,  expressed  her  private  opinion  pretty  distinctly 
by  beginning  her  reply,  to  the  professedly  masculine  note 
referred  to  above,  with  "  Dear  Madam ;  "  but  she  had  ad- 
dressed it  to  "  Currer  Bell,  Esq."  At  every  ring  the  eyes 
of  the  party  turned  towards  the  door.  Some  stranger  (a 
gentleman,  I  think)  came  in;  for  an  instant  they  fancied 
he  was  Currer  Bell,  and  indeed  an  Esq. ;  he  stayed  some 
time — went  away.  Another  ring ;  "  Miss  Bronte  "  was  an- 
nounced ;  and  in  came  a  young-looking  lady,  almost  child-like 
in  stature,  "in  a  deep  mourning  dress,  neat  as  a  Quaker's, 
with  her  beautiful  hair  smooth  and  brown,  her  fine  eyes  blaz- 
ing with  meaning,  and  her  sensible  face  indicating  a  habit 
of  self-control."  She  came, — hesitated  one  moment  at 
finding  four  or  five  people  assembled, — then  went  straight  to 
Miss  Martineau  with  intuitive  recognition,  and,  with  the 
free-masonry  of  good  feeling  and  gentle  breeding,  she  soon 
became  as  one  of  the  family  seated  round  the  tea-table ;  and, 
before  she  left,  she  told  them,  in  a  simple,  touching  manner, 
of  her  sorrow  and  isolation,  and  a  foundation  was  laid  for 
her  intimacy  with  Miss  Martineau. 

After  some  discussion  on  the  subject,  and  a  stipulation 
that  she  should  not  be  specially  introduced  to  any  one,  some 
gentlemen  were  invited  by  Mr.  Smith  to  meet  her  at  dinner 
the  evening  before  she  left  town.  Her  natural  place  would 
have  been  at  the  bottom  of  the  table  by  her  host;  and  th«^ 


LETTER   TO   A   SCHOOLFELLOW.  Ill 

places  of  those  Viho  were  to  be  her  neighbours  were  arranged 
accordingly ;  but,  on  entering  the  dining-room,  she  quickly 
passed  up  so  as  to  sit  next  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  anxious 
to  shelter  herself  near  some  one  of  her  own  sex.  This 
slight  action  arose  out  of  the  same  womanly  seeking  after 
protection  on  every  occasion,  when  there  was  no  moral  duty 
involved  in  asserting  her  independence,  that  made  her  about 

this  time  write  as  follows :  "  Mrs. watches  me   very 

narrowly  when  surrounded  by  strangers.  She  never  takes 
her  eye  from  me.  I  like  the  surveillance ;  it  seems  to  keep 
guard  over  me." 

Eespecting  this  particular  dinner-party  she  thus  wrote 
to  the  Brussels  schoolfellow  of  former  days,  whose  friendship 
had  been  renewed  during  her  present  visit  to  London : — 

"  The  evening  after  I  left  you  passed  better  than  I  ex- 
pected.  Thanks  to  my  substantial  lunch  and  cheering  cup 
of  coffee,  I  was  able  to  wait  the  eight  o'clock  dinner  with 
complete  resignation,  and  to  endure  its  length  quite  coura- 
geously, nor  was  I  too  much  exhausted  to  converse  ;  and  of 
this  I  was  glad,  for  otherwise  I  know  my  kind  host  and 
hostess  would  have  been  much  disappointed.  There  were 
only  seven  gentlemen  at  dinner  besides  Mr.  Smith,  but  of 
these  five  were  critics — men  more  dreaded  in  the  world  of 
letters  than  you  can  conceive.  I  did  not  know  how  much 
their  presence  and  conversation  had  excited  me  till  they 
were  gone,  and  the  reaction  commenced.  When  I  had  re- 
tired for  the  night,  I  wished  to  sleep — the  effort  to  do  so 
was  vain.  I  could  not  close  my  eyes.  Night  passed, 
morning  came,  and  I  rose  without  having  known  a  moment's 
elumber.  So  utterly  worn  out  was  I  when  I  got  to  Derby^ 
that  I  was  again  obliged  to  stay  there  all  night." 


112  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTK   BRONTE. 

"Dec.  17tli. 

"  Here  I  am  at  Hawortli  once  more.  I  feel  as  if  I  liad 
some  out  of  an  exciting  whirl.  Not  that  the  hurry  and 
stimulus  would  have  seemed  much  to  one  accustomed  to  so- 
ciety and  change,  but  to  me  they  were  very  marked.  My 
strength  and  spirits  too  often  proved  quite  insufficient  to  the 
demand  on  their  exertions.  I  used  to  bear  up  as  long  as  I 
possibly  could,  for,  when  I  flagged,  I  could  see  Mr.  Smith 
became  disturbed ;  he  always  thought  that  something  had 
been  said  or  done  to  annoy  me — which  never  once  happened, 
for  I  met  with  perfect  good  breeding  even  from  antagonists 
< — men  who  had  done  their  best  or  worst  to  write  me  down. 
I  explained  to  him,  over  and  over  again,  that  my  occasional 
silence  was  only  failure  of  the  power  to  talk,  never  of  the 
will 

"  Thackeray  is  a  Titan  of  mind.  His  presence  and  pow- 
ers impress  one  deeply  in  an  intellectual  sense ;  I  do  not  see 
him  or  know  him  as  a  man.  All  the  others  are  subordinate. 
I  have  esteem  for  some,  and,  I  trust,  courtesy  for  all.  I  do 
not,  of  course,  know  what  they  thought  of  me,  but  I  believe 
most  of  them  expected  me  to  come  out  in  a  more  marked, 
eccentric,  striking  light.  I  believe  they  desired  more  to  ad- 
mire and  more  to  blame.  I  felt  sufficiently  at  my  ease  with 
all  but  Thackeray ;  with  him  I  was  fearfully  stupid." 

She  returned  to  her  quiet  home,  and  her  noiseless  daily 
duties.  Her  father  had  quite  enough  of  the  spirit  of  hero- 
worship  in  him  to  make  him  take  a  vivid  pleasure  in  the  ac- 
counts of  what  she  had  heard  and  whom  she  had  seen.  It 
was  on  the  occasion  of  one  of  her  visits  to  London  that  he 
had  desired  her  to  obtain  a  sight  of  Prince  Albert's  armoury, 
if  possible  I  am  not  aware  whether  she  managed  to  do 
this ;  but  she  went  to  one  or  two  of  the  great  national  ar- 
mouries in  order  that  she  might  describe  the  stern  steel  harness 


HEB  FILIAL   AFFECTION.  1  !  3 

and  glittering  swords  to  her  father,  "whose  imagination  was 
forcibly  struck  by  the  idea  of  such  things ;  and  often  after- 
wards, when  his  spirits  flagged  and  the  languor  of  old  age  for 
a  time  got  the  better  of  his  indomitable  nature,  she  would 
again  strike  on  the  measure  wild,  and  speak  about  the  ar- 
mies of  strange  weapons  she  had  seen  in  London,  till  he  re- 
sumed his  interest  in  the  old  subject,  and  was  his  own  keen, 
warlike,  intelligent  self  again. 


Hi  LIFE   OF   CHAKLOITE  BROIH^. 


CHAPTEH   V. 

Her  life  at  Haworth  was  so  unvaried  that  the  postman's  call 
was  the  event  of  her  day.  •  Yet  she  dreaded  the  great  temp- 
tation of  centring  all  her  thoughts  upon  this  one  time,  and 
losing  her  interest  in  the  smaller  hopes  and  employments  of 
the  remaining  hours.  Thus  she  conscientiously  denied  her- 
self the  pleasure  of  writing  letters  too  frequently,  because 
the  answers  (when  she  received  them)  took  the  flavour  out 
of  the  rest  of  her  life;  or  the  disappointment,  when  the 
replies  did  not  arrive,  lessened  her  energy  for  her  home 
duties. 

The  winter  of  this  year  in  the  north  was  hard  and  cold  ; 
it  affected  Miss  Bronte's  health  less  than  usual,  however, 
probably  because  the  change  and  the  medical  advice  she  had 
taken  in  London  had  done  her  good  ;  probably,  also,  because 
her  friend  had  come  to  pay  her  a  visit,  and  enforced  that  at- 
tention to  bodily  symptoms  which  Miss  Bronte  was  too  apt  to 
neglect,  from  a  fear  of  becoming  nervous  herself  about  her 
own  state,  and  thus  infecting  her  father.  But  she  could 
scarcely  help  feeling  much  depressed  in  spirits  as  the  anni- 
versary of  her  sister  Emily's  death  came  round ;  all  the  re- 
collections connected  with  it  were  painful,  yet  there  were  no 
outward  events  to  call  off  her  attention,  and  prevent  them 
froiic  pressing  hard  upon  her.     At  this  time,  as  at  many 


FAME   AT   HOME.  115 

others,  I  find  her  alluding  in  her  letters  to  the  solace  which 
she  found  in  the  books  sent  her  from  Cornhill. 

"  What,  I  sometimes  ask,  could  I  do  without  them  ?  I 
have  recourse  to  them  as  to  friends ;  they  shorten  and  cheer 
many  an  hour  that  would  be  too  long  and  too  desolate  other- 
wise ;  even  when  my  tired  sight  will  not  permit  me  to  con* 
tinue  reading,  it  is  pleasant  to  see  them  on  the  shelf,  or  on 
the  table.  I  am  still  very  rich,  for  my  stock  is  far  from  ex- 
hausted. Some  other  friends  have  sent  me  books  lately. 
The  perusal  of  Harriet  Martineau's  ^  Eastern  Life '  has  af- 
forded me  great  pleasure ;  and  I  have  found  a  deep  and  in- 
teresting subject  of  study  in  Newman's  work  on  the  *  Soul.' 
Have  you  read  this  work  ?  It  is  daring, — it  may  be  mistak- 
en,— ^but  it  is  pure  and  elevated.  Fronde's  ^  Nemesis  of 
Faith  '  I  did  not  like  ;  I  thought  it  morbid ;  yet  in  its  pages, 
too,  are  found  sprinklings  of  truth." 

By  this  time,  "  Airedale,  Wharfedale,  Calderdale,  and 
Ribblesdale  "  all  knew  the  place  of  residence  of  Currer  Bell. 
She  compared  herself  to  the  ostrich  hiding  its  head  in  the 
sand ;  and  says  that  she  still  buries  hers  in  the  heath  of  Ha- 
worth  moors;  but  "the  concealment  is  but  self-delusion." 

Indeed  it  was.  Far  and  wide  in  the  West  Biding  had 
spread  the  intelligence  that  Currer  Bell  was  no  other  than  a 
daughter  of  the  venerable  clergyman  of  Haworth ;  the  vil- 
lage itself  caught  up  the  excitement. 

"  Mr. ,  having  finished  '  Jane  Eyre,'  is  now  crying 

out  for  the  '  other  book ; '  he  is  to  have  it  next  week.    .    .    . 

IMr.  B has  finished  '  Shirley ; '  he  is  delighted  with  it. 

John 's  wife  seriously  thought  him  gone  wrong  in  the 

head,  as  she  heard  him  giving  vent  to  roars  of  laughter  as  he 
sat  alone,  clapping  and  stamping  on  the  floor.     He  would 


IIG  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

read  all  the  scenes  about  the  curates  aloud  to  papa."    .    . 
"  Martha  came  in  yesterday,  puffing  and  blowing,  and  much 
excited.    *  I've  heard  sich  news ! '  she  began.    *  What  about  ? ' 
^  Please,  ma'am,  you've  been  and  written  two  books — tho 
grandest  books  that  ever  was  seen.     My  father  has  heard  it 

at  Halifax,  and  Mr.  G T and  Mr.  G and  Mr. 

M at  Bradford ;  and  they  are  going  to  have  a  meet- 
ing at  the  Mechanics'  Institute,  and  to  settle  about  ordering 
them.'     *  Hold  your  tongue,  Martha,  and  be  off.'     I  fell  into 

a  cold  sweat.     *  Jane  Eyre '  will  be  read  by  J B , 

by  Mrs.  T ,  and  B .  Heaven  help,  keep,  and  deliv- 
er me !  "...  "  The  Haworth  people  have  been  making  great 
fools  of  themselves  about  *  Shirley  ; '  they  have  taken  it  in 
an  enthusiastic  light.  When  they  got  the  volumes  at  the 
Mechanics'  Institute,  all  the  members  wanted  them.  They 
cast  lots  for  the  whole  three,  and  whoever  got  a  volume  was 
only  allowed  to  keep  it  two  days,  and  was  to  be  fined  a  shil- 
ling per  diem  for  longer  detention.  It  would  be  mere  non- 
sense and  vanity  to  tell  you  what  they  say." 

The  tone  of  these  extracts  is  thoroughly  consonant  with 
the  spirit  of  Yorkshire  and  Lancashire  people,  who  try  as 
long  as  they  can  to  conceal  their  emotions  of  pleasure  under  a 
bantering  exterior,  almost  as  if  making  fun  of  themselves. — 
Miss  Bronte  was  extremely  touched  in  the  secret  places  of 
her  warm  heart  by  the  way  in  which  those  who  had  known  her 
from  her  childhood  were  proud  and  glad  of  her  success,  All 
round  about  the  news  had  spread  ;  strangers  came  "  from  be- 
yond Bromley  "  to  see  her,  as  she  went  quietly  and  uncon- 
Bciously  into  church  ;  and  the  sexton  "  gained  many  a  half- 
crown  "  for  pointing  her  out. 

But  there  were  drawbacks  to  this  hearty  and  kindly  ap- 
preciation which  was  so  much  more  valuable  than  fame.  The 
January  number  of  the  "  Edinburgh  Review  "  had  contained 


HER   COKRESPONDENCE   WITH   MR.    LEWES.  117 

the  ftiiicle  on  "  Shirley,"  of  which  her  correspondent,  Mr. 
Lewes,  was  the  writer.  I  have  said  that  Miss  Bronte  was 
especially  anxious  to  be  criticised  as  a  writer,  without  rela- 
tion to  her  sex  as  a  woman.  Whether  right  or  wrong,  her 
feeling  was  strong  on  this  point.  Now  in  this  review  of 
"  Shirley,"  the  headings  of  the  first  two  pages  ran  thus  * 
"  Mental  Equality  of  the  Sexes  ?  "  "  Female  Literature,' 
and  through  the  whole  article  the  fact  of  the  author's  sex  Is 
never  forgotten. 

A  few  days  after  the  review  appeared,  Mr.  Lewes  re- 
ceived the  following  note, — rather  in  the  style  of  Anne, 
Countess  of  Pembroke,  Dorset,  and  Montgomery. 

TO    G.   H.    LEWES,  ESQ. 

"  I  can  be  on  my  guard  against  my  enemies,  but  God  de- 
liver me  from  my  friends ! 

"  CuRRER  Bell." 

In  some  explanatory  notes  on  her  letters  to  him,  with 
which  Mr.  Lewes  has  favoured  me,  he  says : — 

*' Seeing  that   she  was   unreasonable  because  angry,  I 

wrote  to  remonstrate  with  her  on  quarrelling  with  the  severity 

j>r  frankness  of  a  review,  which  certainly  was  dictated  by  real 

admiration  and  real  friendship ;  even  under  its  objections  tho 

friend's  voice  could  be  heard." 

The  following  letter  is  her  reply  :— 

TO   G.    H.    LEWES,    ESQ. 

"Jan.  19tli,  1850. 
"  My  dear  Sir, — I  will  tell  you  why  I  was  so  hurt  by 
that  review  in  the  '  Edinburgh  ' ;  not  because  its  criticism 
was  keen  or  its  blame  sometimes  severe ;  not  because  its 


118  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

praise  was  stinted  (for,  indeed,  I  think  you  gire  me  quite  aa 
much  praise  as  I  deserve),  but  because  after  I  had  said  earn- 
estly that  I  wished  critics  would  judge  me  as  an  author^  not 
as  a  woman,  you  so  roughly — I  even  thought  so  cruelly — 
handled  the  question  of  sex.  I  dare  say  you  meant  no  harm, 
and  perhaps  you  will  not  now  be  able  to  understand  why  I 
was  so  grieved  at  what  you  will  probably  deem  such  a  trifle; 
but  grieved  I  was,  and  indignant  too. 

"  There  was  a  passage  or  two  which  you  did  quite  wrong 
to  write. 

"  However,  I  will  not  bear  malice  against  you  for  it ;  I 
know  what  your  nature  is ;  it  is  not  a  bad  or  unkind  one, 
though  you  would  often  jar  terribly  on  some  feelings  with 
whose  recoil  and  quiver  you  could  not  possibly  sympathise. 
I  imagine  you  are  both  enthusiastic  and  implacable,  as  you 
are  at  once  sagacious  and  careless ;  you  know  much  and  dis- 
cover much,  but  you  are  in  such  a  hurry  to  tell  it  all  you 
never  give  yourself  time  to  think  how  your  reckless  eloquence 
may  affect  others ;  and,  what  is  more,  if  you  knew  how  it  did 
affect  them,  you  would  not  much  care. 

^^  However,  I  shake  hands  with  you ;  you  have  excellent 
points ;  you  can  be  generous.  I  still  feel  angry,  and  think 
I  do  well  to  be  angry ;  but  it  is  the  anger  one  experiences  for 
rough  play  rather  than  for  foul  play. — I  am  yours,  with  a 
certain  respect,  and  mors  chagrin, 

"  CuRRER  Bell." 

As  Mr.  Lewes  says,  *'  the  tone  of  this  letter  is  cavalier. 
But  I  thank  him  for  having  allowed  me  to  publish  what  is  so 
characteristic  of  one  phase  of  Miss  Bronte^s  mind.  Her 
health,  too,  was  suffering  at  this  time.  "  I  don't  know  what 
heaviness  of  spirit  has  beset  me  of  late,"  (she  writes,  in  pa- 
thetic words,  wrung  out  of  the  sadness  of  her  heart,)  "  made 
my  faculties  dull,  made  rest  weariness,  and  occupation  bur- 


HEAVY  MENTAL  SADNESS.  119 

deusoine.  Now  and  then,  the  silence  of  the  house,  the  soli- 
tude of  the  room,  has  pressed  on  me  with  a  weight  I  found 
it  difficult  to  bear,  and  recollection  has  not  failed  to  be  as 
alert,  poignant,  obtrusive,  as  other  feelings  were  languid.  I 
attribute  this  state  of  things  partly  to  the  weather.  Quick  - 
silver  invariably  falls  low  in  storms  and  high  winds,  and  I 
have  ere  this  been  warned  of  approaching  disturbance  in  the 
atmosphere  by  a  sense  of  bodily  weakness,  and  deep,  heavy 
mental  sadness,  such  as  some  would  call  presentiment^ — ^pre- 
sentiment indeed  it  is,  but  not  at  all  supernatural I 

cannot  .help  feeling  something  of  the  excitement  of  expec- 
tation till  the  post  hour  comes,  and  when,  day  after  day,  it 
brings  nothing,  I  get  low.  This  is  a  stupid,  disgraceful,  un- 
meaning state  of  things.  I  feel  bitterly  vexed  at  my  own 
dependence  and  folly ;  but  it  is  so  bad  for  the  mind  to  be 
quite  alone,  and  to  have  none  with  whom  to  talk  over  little 
crosses  and  disappointments,  and  to  laugh  them  away.  If  I 
could  write,  I  dare  say  I  should  be  better,  but  I  cannot  write 
a  line.  However  (by  God's  help),  I  will  contend  agaiii^t 
this  folly. 

"  I  had  rather  a  foolish  letter  the  other  day  from . 

Some  things  in  it  nettled  me,  especially  an  unnecessarily 
earnest  assurance  that,  in  spite  of  all  I  had  done  in  the  writ- 
ing line,  I  still  retained  a  place  in  her  esteem.  My  answer 
took  strong  and  high  ground  at  once.  I  said  I  had  been 
troubled  by  no  doubts  on  the  subject ;  that  I  neither  did  her 
nor  myself  the  injustice  to  suppose  there  was  anything  in  what 
I  had  written  to  incur  the  just  forfeiture  of  esteem 

"A  few  days  since,  a  little  incident  happened  which 
curiously  touched  me.  Papa  put  into  my  hands  a  little 
packet  of  letters  and  papers, — telling  me  that  they  were 
mamma's  and  that  I  might  read  them.  I  did  read  them,  in 
A  frame  of  mind  I  cannot  describe.  The  papers  were  yellow 
with  time,  all  having  been  written  before  I  was  born :  it  was 


120  IJFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BKONTE. 

Btrange  now  to  peruse,  for  the  first  time,  the  records  of  a 
mind  whence  my  own  sprang ;  and  most  strange,  and  at  once 
sad  and  sweet,  to  find  that  mind  of  a  truly  fine,  pure,  and 
elevated  order.  They  were  written  to  papa  before  they  were 
married.  There  is  a  rectitude,  a  refinement,  a  constancy,  a 
modesty,  a  sense,  a  gentleness  about  them  indescribable.  I 
wished  that  she  had  lived,  and  that  I  had  known  her.  .  .  . 
All  through  this  month  of  February,  I  have  had  a  'crushing 
time  of  it.  I  could  not  escape  from  or  rise  above  certain 
most  mournful  recollections, — the  last  days,  the  suff'erings, 
the  remembered  words — most  sorrowful  to  me,  of  those  who 
Faith  assures  me,  are  now  happy.  At  evening  and  bed-time, 
such  thoughts  would  haunt  me,  bringing  a  weary  heartache  " 

The  reader  may  remember  the  strange  prophetic  vision, 
which  dictated  a  few  words,  written  on  the  occasion  of  the 
death  of  a  pupil  of  hers  in  January,  1840 : 

'^  Wherever  I  seek  for  her  now  in  this  world,  she  cannot 
be  found ;  no  more  than  a  flower  or  a  leaf  which  withered 
twenty  years  ago.  A  bereavement  of  this  kind  gives  one  a 
glimpse  of  the  feeling  those  must  have,  who  have  seen  all 
drop  round  them — ^friend  after  friend,  and  are  left  to  end 
their  pilgrimage  alone." 

Even  in  persons  of  naturally  robust  health,  and  with  no 

"  Ricordarsi  di  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria — '* 

to  wear,  with  slow  dropping  but  perpetual  pain,  upon  their 
spirits,  the  nerves  and  appetite  will  give  way  in  solitude. 
How  much  more  must  it  have  been  so  with  Miss  Bronte, 
delicate  and  frail  in  constitution,  tried  by  much  anxiety  and 
sorrow  in  early  life,  and  now  left  to  face  her  life  alone  < 


FATHER   AND   DAUGHTER.  121 

Owing  to  Mr.  Bronte's  great  age,  and  long  formed  habits  of 
solitary  occupation  when  in  the  house,  his  daughter  was  left 
to  herself  for  the  greater  part  of  the  day.  Ever  since  his 
serious  attacks  of  illness,  he  had  dined  alone ;  a  portion  of 
her  dinner,  regulated  by  strict  attention  to  the  diet  most 
suitable  for  him,  being  taken  into  his  room  by  herself.  After 
dinner  she  read  to  him  for  an  hour  or  so,  as  his  sight  was  too 
weak  to  allow  of  his  reading  long  to  himself.  He  was  out  of 
doors  among  his  parishioners  for  a  good  part  of  each  day ; 
often  for  a  longer  time  than  his  strength  would  permit.  Yet 
he  always  liked  to  go  alone,  and  consequently  her  affectionate 
care  could  be  no  check  upon  the  length  of  his  walks  to  the 
more  distant  hamlets  which  were  in  his  cure.  He  would 
come  back  occasionally  utterly  fatigued ;  and  be  obliged  to 
go  to  bed,  questioning  himself  sadly  as  to  where  all  his  former 
strength  of  body  had  gone  to.  His  strength  of  will  was  the 
same  as  ever.  That  which  he  resolved  to  do  he  did,  at  what- 
ever cost  of  weariness ;  but  his  daughter  was  all  the  more 
anxious  from  seeing  him  so  regardless  of  himself  and  his 
health.  The  hours  of  retiring  for  the  night  had  always  been 
early  in  the  Parsonage ;  now  family  prayers  were  at  eight 
o'clock  ;  directly  after  which  Mr.  Bronte  and  old  Tabby  went 
to  bed,  and  Martha  was  not  long  in  following.  But  Char- 
lotte could  not  have  slept  if  she  had  gone, — could  not  have 
rested  on  her  desolate  couch.  She  stopped  up, — it  was  very 
tempting, — ^late  and  later;  striving  to  beguile  the  lonely 
night  with  some  employment,  till  her  weak  eyes  failed  to 
read  or  to  sew,  and  could  only  weep  in  solitude  over  the  dead 
that  were  not.  No  one  on  earth  can  even  imagine  what  those 
hours  were  to  her.  All  the  grim  superstitions  of  the  North 
had  been  implanted  in  her  during  her  childhood  by  the  ser- 
vants, who  believed  in  them.  They  recurred  to  her  now, — 
with  no  shrinking  from  the  spirits  of  the  Dead,  but  with  such 
an  intense  longing  once  more  to  stand  face  to  face  with  the 

VOL.    II.— 6 


122  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

souls  of  her  sisters  as  no  one  but  slie  could  have  felt.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  very  strength  of  her  yearning  should  have 
compelled  them  to  appear.  On  windy  nights^  cries,  and  sobs, 
and  wailings  seemed  to  go  round  the  house,  as  of  the  dearly- 
beloved  striving  to  force  their  way  to  her.  Some  one  con- 
versing with  her  once  objected,  in  my  presence,  to  that  part 
of  *^  Jane  Eyre  "  in  which  she  hears  E-ochester's  voice  crying 
out  to  her  in  a  great  crisis  of  her  life,  he  being  many,  many 
miles  distant  at  the  time.  I  do  not  know  what  incident  was 
in  Miss  Bronte's  recollection  when  she  replied,  in  a  low 
voice,  drawing  in  her  breath,  ^' But  it  is  a  true  thing;  it 
really  happened." 

The  reader,  who  has  even  faintly  pictured  to  himself  her 
life  at  this  time, — the  solitary  days, — the  waking,  watching 
nights, — may  imagine  to  what  a  sensitive  pitch  her  nerves 
were  strung,  and  how  such  a  state  was  sure  to  affect  her 
health. 

It  was  no  bad  thing  for  her  that  about  this  time  various 
people  began  to  go  over  to  Haworth,  curious  to  see  the 
scenery  described  in  "  Shirley,"  if  a  sympathy  with  the 
writer,  of  a  more  generous  kind  than  to  be  called  mere 
curiosity,  did  not  make  them  wish  to  know  whether  they 
could  not  in  some  way  serve  or  cheer  one  who  had  suffered 
so  deeply. 

Among  this  number  were  Sir  James  and  Lady  Kay 
Shuttleworth.  Their  house  lies  over  the  crest  of  the  moors 
which  rise  above  Haworth,  at  about  a  dozen  miles'  distance 
as  the  crow  flies,  though  much  further  by  the  road.  But, 
according  to  the  acceptation  of  the  word  in  that  uninhabited 
district,  they  were  neighbours,  if  they  so  willed  it.  Accor- 
dingly, Sir  James  and  his  wife  drove  over  one  morning,  at 
the  beginning  of  March,  to  call  upon  Miss  Bronte  and  her 
father.  Before  taking  leave,  they  pressed  her  to  visit  them 
aj)  Gawthorpe  Hall,  their  residence  on  the  borders  of  East 


LETTER   TO   MR.    SMITH.  123 

Lancashire.  After  some  hesitation,  and  at  the  urgency  of 
her  father,  who  was  extremely  anxious  to  procure  for  her 
any  change  of  scene  and  society  that  was  offered,  she  con- 
sented to  go.  On  the  whole,  she  enjoyed  her  visit  very 
much,  in  spite  of  her  shyness,  and  the  difficulty  she  always 
experienced  in  meeting  the  advances  of  those  strangers  whose 
kindness  she  did  not  feel  herself  in  a  position  to  repay. 

She  took  great  pleasure  in  the  "quiet  drives  to  old  ruins 
and  old  halls,  situated  among  older  hills  and  woods ;  the 
dialogues  by  the  old  fireside  in  the  antique  oak-panneled 
drawing-room,  while  they  suited  him,  did  not  too  much  op- 
press and  exhaust  me.  The  house,  too,  is  much  to  my  taste ; 
near  three  centuries  old,  grey,  stately,  and  picturesque.  On 
the  whole,  now  that  the  visit  is  over,  I  do  not  regret  having 
paid  it.  The  worst  of  it  is,  that  there  is  now  some  menace 
hanging  over  my  head  of  an  invitation  to  go  to  them  in  Lon- 
don during  the  season.  This,  which  would  be  a  great  enjoy- 
ment to  some  people,  is  a  perfect  terror  to  me.  I  should 
highly  prize  the  advantages  to  be  gained  in  an  extended 
range  of  observation ;  but  I  tremble  at  the  thought  of  the 
price  I  must  necessarily  pay  in  mental  distress  and  physical 
wear  and  tear." 

On  the  same  day  on  which  she  wrote  the  above,  she  sent 
the  following  letter  to  Mr.  Smith. 

"March  IGth,  1850. 

"  I  return  Mr.  H 's  note,  after  reading  it  carefully, 

T  tried  very  hard  to  understand  all  he  says  about  art ;  but, 
to  speak  truth,  my  efforts  were  crowned  with  incomplete 
fcuccess.  There  is  a  certain  jargon  in  use  amongst  critics  on 
this  point  through  which  it  is  physically  and  morally  impos- 
sible to  me  to  see  daylight.  One  thing,  however,  I  see 
plainly  enough,  and  that  is,  Mr.  Currer  Bell  needs  improve- 
ment, and   ought    to   strive   after  it;  and   this   (D.  V.)   ha 


124  LITE   OF   CIIAHLOTTE   BRONTE. 

honestly  intends  to  do — taking  his  time,  howe^^er  and  fol- 
lowing as  his  guides  Nature  and  Truth.  If  these  lead  to 
what  the  critics  call  art,  it  is  all  very  well ;  but  if  not,  that 
grand  desideratum  has  no  chance  of  being  run  after  or 
caught.  The  puzzle  is,  that  while  the  people  of  the  South 
object  to  my  delineation  of  Northern  life  and  manners,  the 
people  of  Yorkshire  and  Lancashire  approve.  They  say  it  is 
precisely  the  contrast  of  rough  nature  with  highly  artificial 
cultivation  which  forms  one  of  their  main  characteristics. 
Such,  or  something  very  similar,  has  been  the  observation 
made  to  me  lately,  whilst  I  have  been  from  home,  by  mem- 
bers of  some  of  the  ancient  East  Lancashire  families,  whose 
mansions  lie  on  the  hilly  border-land  between  the  two  couu« 
ties.  The  question  arises,  whether  do  the  London  critics, 
or  the  old  Northern  squires,  understand  the  matter  best  ? 

"  Any  promise  you  require  respecting  the  books  shall  be 
willingly  given,  provided  only  I  am  allowed  the  Jesuit's 
principle  of  a  mental  reservation,  giving  licence  to  forget  and 
promise  whenever  oblivion  shall  appear  expedient.  The  last 
two  or  three  numbers  of  *  Pendennis'  will  not,  I  dare  say 
be  generally  thought  sufficiently  exciting,  yet  I  like  them. 
Though  the  story  lingers,  (for  me)  the  interest  does  not  flag. 
Here  and  there  we  feel  that  the  pen  has  been  guided  by  a 
tired  hand,  that  the  mind  of  the  writer  has  been  somewhat 
chafed  and  depressed  by  his  recent  illness,  or  by  some  other 
cause ;  but  Thackeray  still  proves  himself  greater  when  he 
is  weary  than  other  writers  are  when  they  are  fresh.  The 
public,  of  course,  will  have  no  compassion  for  his  fatigue, 
and  make  no  allowance  for  the  ebb  of  inspiration  ;  but  some 
true-hearted  readers  here  and  there,  while  grieving  that  such 
a  man  should  be  obliged  to  write  when  he  is  not  in  the  mood, 
will  wonder  that,  under  such  circumstances,  he  should  write 
BO  well.  The  parcel  of  books  will  come,  I  doubt  not,  at 
8uch  time  as  it  shall  suit  the  good  pleasure  of  the  railway 


REMARKS    ON   BOOKS.  125 

officials  to  send  it  on, — or  rather  to  yield  it  up  to  the  repeat- 
ed and  humble  solicitations  of  Haworth  carriers ;  till  when 
I  wait  in  all  reasonable  patience  and  resignation,  looking 
with  docility  to  that  model  of  active  self-helpfulness  ^  Punch' 
friendly  offers  the  '  Women  of  England,'  in  his  '  Unprotected 
Female.' " 

The  books  lent  her  by  her  publishers  were  as  I  have 
before  said,  a  great  solace  and  pleasure  to  her.  There  was 
much  interest  in  opening  the  Cornhill  parcel.  But  there 
was  pain  too ;  for,  as  she  untied  the  cords,  and  took  out  the 
volumes  one  by  one,  she  could  scarcely  fail  to  be  reminded 
of  those  who  once,  on  similar  occasions,  looked  on  so  eagerly. 
"  I  miss  familiar  voices,  commenting  mirthfully  and  pleasant- 
ly ;  the  room  seems  very  still — very  empty ;  but  yet  there  is 
consolation  in  remembering  that  Papa  will  take  pleasure  in 
some  of  the  books.  Happiness  quite  unshared  can  scarcely 
be  called  happiness  ;  it  has  no  taste."  She  goes  on  to  make 
remarks  upon  the  kind  of  books  sent. 

"  I  wonder  how  you  can  choose  so  well ;  on  no  account 
would  I  forestall  the  choice.  I  am  sure  any  selection  I 
might  make  for  myself  would  be  less  satisfactory  than  the 
selection  others  so  kindly  and  judiciously  make  for  me  • 
besides,  if  I  knew  all  that  was  coming,  it  would  be  compar- 
atively flat.     I  would  much  rather  not  know. 

^^  Amongst  the  especially  welcome  works  are  *  Southey's 
Life,'  the  *  Women  of  France,'  Hazlitt's  '  Essays,'  Emerson's 
*  Eepresentative  Men  ;  '  but  it  seems  invidious  to  particular- 
ize when  all  are  good.  *  ...  I  took  up  a  second  small 
book,  Scott's  *  Suggestions  on  Female  Education ; '  that,  too, 
I  read,  and  with  unalloyed  pleasure.  It  is  very  good; 
justly  thought,  and  clearly  and  felicitously  expressed.  The 
girls  of  this  generation  have  great  advantages ;  it  seems  to 
me  that  they  receive  much  encouragement  in  the  acquisition 


J  26  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

of  knowledge,  and  tlie  cultivation  of  their  minds;  in  these 
days,  women  may  be  thoughtful  and  well  read,  without  being 
universally  stigmatised  as  ^  Blues  '  and  '  Pedants.'  Men  be- 
gin to  approve  and  aid,  instead  of  ridiculing  or  checking 
them  in  their  efforts  to  be  wise.  I  must  say  that,  for  my 
own  part,  whenever  I  have  been  so  happy  as  to  share  the  con- 
versation of  a  really  intellectual  man,  my  feeling  has  been, 
not  that  the  little  I  knew  was  accounted  a  superfluity  and 
impertinence,  but  that  I  did  not  know  enough  to  satisfy  just 
expectation.  I  have  always  to  explain,  *  In  me  you  must 
not  look  for  great  attainments:  what  seems  to  you  the  re- 
sult of  reading  and  study,  is  chiefly  spontaneous  and  intui- 
tive.' ....  Against  the  teaching  of  some  (even  clever) 
men,  one  instinctively  revolts.  They  may  possess  attain- 
ments, they  may  boast  varied  knowledge  of  life  and  of  the 
world ;  but  if  of  the  finer  perceptions,  of  the  more  delicate 
phases  of  feeling,  they  be  destitute  and  incapable,  of  what 
avail  is  the  rest  ?  Believe  me,  while  hints  well  worth  consi- 
deration may  come  from  unpretending  sources,  from  minds 
not  highly  cultured,  but  naturally  fine  and  delicate,  from 
hearts  kindly,  feeling,  and  unenvious,  learned  dictums  deliv- 
ered with  pomp  and  sound  may  be  perfectly  empty,  stupid, 
and   contemptible.     No  man   ever   yet   *by  aid   of  Greek' 

climbed  Parnassus,'  or  taught  others   to  climb  it I 

enclose  for  your  perusal  a  scrap  of  paper  which  came  into  my 
hands  without  the  knowledge  of  the  writer.  He  is  a  poor 
working  man  of  this  village — ^a  thoughtful,  reading,  feeling 
being,  whose  mind  is  too  keen  for  his  frame,  and  wears  it 
out.  I  have  not  spoken  to  him  above  thrice  in  my  life,  for 
he  is  a  Dissenter,  and  has  rarely  come  in  my  way.  The  do- 
cument is  a  sort  of  record  of  his  feelings,  after  the  perusal 
of  ^  Jane  Eyre ; '  it  is  artless  and  earnest ;  genuine  and  gen- 
erous. You  must  return  it  to  me,  for  I  value  it  more  than 
V^stimonio*i  from  higher  sources.     He  said,  *  Miss  Bronto 


THE   CITRATES    m    '^  SHIRLEY."  127 

if  she  knew  he  had  written  it,  would  scorn  him  ;  '  but,  in- 
deed. Miss  Bronte  does  not  scorn  him  ;  she  only  grieves 
that  a  mind  of  which  this  is  the  emanation,  should  be  kept 
crushed  by  the  leaden  hand  of  poverty — by  the  trials  of  un- 
certain health,  and  the  claims  of  a  large  family. 

"  As  to  the  '  Times,'  as  you  say,  the  acrimony  of  its  crit- 
ique has  proved,  in  some  measure,  its  own  antidote ;  to  have 
been  more  effective,  it  should  have  been  juster.  I  think  it 
has  had  little  weight  up  here  in  the  North ;  it  may  be,  that 
annoying  remarks,  if  made,  are  not  suffered  to  reach  my  ear ; 
but  certainly,  while  I  have  heard  little  condemnatory  of 
*  Shirley,'  more  than  once  have  I  been  deeply  moved  by  man- 
ifestations of  even  enthusiastic  approbation.  I  deem  it  un- 
wise to  dwell  much  on  these  matters ;  but  for  once  I  must 
permit  myself  to  remark,  that  the  generous  pride  many  of 
the  Yorkshire  people  have  taken  in  the  matter,  has  been  ^ 
such  as  to  awake  and  claim  my  gratitude, — especially  since 
it  has  afforded  a  source  of  reviving  pleasure  to  my  father  in 
his  old  age.  The  very  curates,  poor  fellows !  show  no  re- 
sentment :  each  characteristically  finds  solace  for  his  own 
wounds  in  crowing  over  his  brethren.  Mr.  Donne  was,  at 
first,  a  little  disturbed ;  for  a  week  or  two  he  was  in  disquie- 
tude, but  he  is  now  soothed  down ;  only  yesterday  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  making  him  a  comfortable  cup  of  tea,  and 
seeing  him  sip  it  with  revived  complacency.  It  is  a  curious 
fact  that,  since  he  read  *  Shirley,'  he  has  come  to  the  house 
oftener  than  ever,  and  been  remarkably  meek  and  assiduous 
to  please.  Some  people's  natures  are  veritable  enigmas  :  I 
quite  expected  to  have  had  one  good  scene  at  least  with 
him  ;  but  as  yet  nothing  of  the  sort  has  occurred." 


128  rjFE   OF   CITAKLOTTE   ERONTE. 


C  H  AP  T  E  E  V  I . 

During  the  earlier  months  of  this  spring,  Haworth  was  ex- 
tremely unhealthy.  The  weather  was  damp,  low  fever  was 
prevalent,  and  the  household  at  the  Parsonage  suffered  along 
with  its  neighbours.  Charlotte  says,  "  I  have  felt  it  (the  fever) 
in  frequent  thirst  and  infrequent  appetite;  Papa  too,  and 
even  Martha,  have  complained."  This  depression  of  health 
produced  depression  of  spirits,  and  she  grew  more  and  more 
to  dread  the  proposed  journey  to  London  with  Sir  James  and 
Lady  Kay  Shuttleworth.  "  I  know  what  the  effect  and  what 
the  pain  will  be,  how  wretched  I  shall  often  feel,  and  how 
thin  and  haggard  I  shall  get ;  but  he  who  shuns  suffering 
will  never  win  victory.  If  I  mean  to  improve,  I  must  strive 
and  endure.  .  .  Sir  James  has  been  a  physician,  and 
looks  at  me  with  a  physician's  eye  :  he  saw  at  once  that  I 
could  not  stand  much  fatigue,  nor  bear  the  presence  of  many 
strangers.  I  believe  he  would  partly  understand  how  soon 
my  stock  of  animal  spirits  was  brought  to  a  low  ebb ;  but 
none — ^not  the  most  skilful  physician — can  get  at  more  than 
the  outside  of  these  things;  the  heart  knows  its  own  bitter- 
ness, and  the  frame  its  own  poverty,  and  the  mind  its  own 
struggles.  Papa  is  eager  and  restless  for  me  to  go ;  the 
idea  of  a  refusal  quite  hurts  him." 


PROPOSED    VISIT   TO   LONDON.  129 

But  the  sensations  of  illness  in  the  family  increased ;  the 
eymptoms  were  probably  aggravated,  if  not  caused,  by  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  church-yard,  "  paved  with  rain- 
blackened  tomb-stones."     On  April  29th  she  writes  : — 

"  We  have  had  but  a  poor  week  of  it  at  Haworth.  Papa 
continues  far  from  well ;  he  is  often  very  sickly  in  the  morn- 
ing, a  symptom  which  I  have  remarked  before  in  his  aggra- 
vated attacks  of  bronchitis ;  unless  he  should  get  much  bet- 
ter, I  shall  never  think  of  leaving  him  to  go  to  London. 
Martha  has  suffered  from  tic-douloureux,  with  sickness  and 
fever,  just  like  you.  I  have  a  bad  cold,  and  a  stubborn  sore 
throat ;  in  short,  everybody  but  old  Tabby  is  out  of  sorts. 

When was  here,  he  complained  of  a  sudden  headache, 

and  the  night  after  he  was  gone  I  had  something  similar, 
very  bad, — lasting  about  three  hours." 

A  fortnight  later  she  writes  : — 

"  I  did  not  think  Papa  well  enough  to  be  left,  and  ac- 
cordingly begged  Sir  James  and  Lady  Kay  Shuttleworth  to 
return  to  London  without  me.  It  was  arranged  that  we 
were  to  stay  at  several  of  their  friends'  and  relatives'  houses 
on  the  way ;  a  week  or  mo**e  would  have  been  taken  up  on 
the  journey.  I  cannot  say  that  I  regret  having  missed  this 
ordeal ;  I  would  as  lief  have  walked  among  red-hot  plough- 
shares ;  but  I  do  regret  one  great  treat,  which  I  shall  now 
miss.  Next  Wednesday  is  the  anniversary  dinner  of  the 
Royal  Literary  Fund  Society,  held  in  Freemasons'  Hall. 
Octavian  Blewitt,  the  secretary,  offered  me  a  ticket  for  the 
ladies'  gallery.  I  should  have  seen  all  the  great  literati  and 
artists  gathered  in  the  hall  below,  and  heard  them  speak ; 
Thackeray  and  Dickens  are  always  present  among  the  rest. 
This  cannot  now  be.  I  don't  think  all  London  can  afford 
another  sight  to  me  so  interesting." 
VOL.  II. — 6* 


130  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONtS. 

It  became  requisite,  however,  before  long,  that  she  shouhi 
go  to  London  on  business  ;  and  as  Sir  James  Kay  Shuttle- 
worth  was  detained  in  the  country  by  indisposition,,  she  ac- 
cepted Mrs.  Smith's  invitation  to  stay  quietly  at  her  house, 
while  she  transacted  her  affairs. 

In  the  interval  between  the  relinquishment  of  the  first 
plan  and  the  adoption  of  the  second,  she  wrote  the  following 
letter  to  one  who  was  much  valued  among  her  literary 
friends : — 

^' May  22nd. 

*^  I  had  thought  to  bring  the  ^  Leader '  and  the  ^  Athe- 
naeum '  myself  this  time,  and  not  to  have  to  send  them  by 
post,  but  it  turns  out  otherwise ;  my  journey  to  London  is 
again  postponed,  and  this  time  indefinitely.  Sir  James  Kay 
Shuttle  worth's  state  of  health  is  the  cause — a  cause,  I  fear, 

not  likely  to  be  soon  removed Once  more,  then,  I 

settle  myself  down  in  the  quietude  of  Haworth  Parsonage, 
with  books  for  my  household  companions,  and  an  occasional 
letter  for  a  visitor ;  a  mute  society,  but  neither  quarrelsome, 
nor  vulgarizing,  nor  unimproving. 

"  One  of  the  pleasures  I  had  promised  myself  consisted 
in  asking  you  several  questions  about  the  '  Leader,'  which  is 
really,  in  its  way,  an  interesting  paper.  I  wanted,  amongst 
other  things,  to  ask  you  the  real  names  of  some  of  the  con- 
tributors, and  also  what  Lewes  writes  besides  his  '  Appren- 
ticeship of  Life.'  I  always  think  the  article  headed  ^  Litera- 
ture '  is  his.  Some  of  the  communications  in  the  '  Open 
Council'  department  are  odd  productions  ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
very  fair  and  right  to  admit  them.  Is  not  the  system  of  the 
paper  altogether  a  novel  one  ?  I  do  not  remember  seeing 
anything  precisely  like  it  before. 

"  I  have  just  received  yours  of  this  morning;  thank  you 
tor  the  enclosed  note.     The  longings  for  liberty  and  leisure 


LETTER   TO   AN    UNKNOWN   ADMIKER.  131 

wliich  May  sunshine  wakens  in  yon,  stir  my  sympathy.  I 
am  afraid  Cornhill  is  little  better  than  a  prison  for  its  in- 
mates on  warm  spring  or  summer  days.  It  is  a  pity  to  think 
of  you  all  toiling  at  your  desks  in  such  genial  weather  as 
this.  For  my  part,  I  am  free  to  walk  on  the  moors ;  but 
when  I  go  out  there  alone,  everything  reminds  me  of  the 
times  when  others  were  with  me,  and  then  the  moors  seem 
a  wilderness,  featureless,  solitary,  saddening.  My  sister 
Emily  had  a  particular  love  for  them,  and  there  is  not  a 
knoll  of  heather,  not  a  branch  of  fern,  not  a  young  bilberry- 
leaf,  not  a  fluttering  lark  or  linnet,  but  reminds  me  of  her. 
The  distant  prospects  were  Anne's  delight,  and  when  I  look 
round,  she  is  in  the  blue  tints,  the  pale  mists,  the  waves  and 
shadows  of  the  horizon.  In  the  hill-country  silence,  their 
poetry  comes  by  lines  and  stanzas  into  my  mind  :  once  I 
loved  it ;  now  I  dare  not  read  it,  and  am  driven  often  to  wish 
I  could  taste  one  draught  of  oblivion,  and  forget  much  that, 
while  mind  remains,  I  never  shall  forget.  Many  people 
seem  to  recall  their  departed  relatives  with  a  sort  of  melan- 
choly complacency,  but  I  think  these  have  not  watched  them 
through  lingering  sickness,  nor  witnessed  their  last  moments : 
it  is  these  reminiscences  that  stand  by  your  bedside  at  night, 
and  rise  at  your  pillow  in  the  morning.  At  the  end  of  all, 
however,  exists  the  Grreat  Hope.  Eternal  Life  is  theirs 
now.'' 

She  had  to  write  many  letters,  about  this  time,  toautnora 
who  sent  her  their  books,  and  strangers  who  expressed  their 
admiration  of  her  own.  The  following  was  in  reply  to  one 
of  the  latter  class,  and  was  addressed  to  a  young  man  at 
Cambridge : — 

«  Maj  23r(l,  1850. 
"  Apologies  are  indeed  unnecessary  for  a  *  reality  of  feel- 
ing, for  a  genuine  unaffected  impulse  of  the  spirit^'  such  as 


132  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BKONTE. 

prompted  you  to  write  the  letter  which.  I  now  briefly  ac- 
knowledge. 

"Certainly  it  is  *  something  to  me'  that  what  I  write 
should  be  acceptable  to  the  feeling  heart  and  refined  intel- 
lect ;  undoubtedly  it  is  much  to  me  that  my  creations  (such 
as  they  are)  should  find  harbourage,  appreciation,  indul- 
gence, at  any  friendly  hand,  or  from  any  generous  mind. 
You  are  very  welcome  to  take  Jane,  Caroline,  and  Shirley 
for  your  sisters,  and  I  trust  they  will  often  speak  to  their 
adopted  brother  when  he  is  solitary,  and  soothe  him  when  he 
is  sad.  If  they  cannot  make  themselves  at  home  in  a  thought- 
ful, sympathetic  mind,  and  diffuse  through  its  twilight  a 
cheering,  domestic  glow,  it  is  their  fault ;  they  are  not,  in 
that  case,  so  amiable,  so  benignant,  not  so  real  as  they  ought 
to  be.  If  they  cariy  and  can  find  household  altars  in  human 
hearts,  they  will  fulfil  the  best  design  of  their  creation,  in 
therein  maintaining  a  genial  flame,  which  shall  warm  but  not 
scorch,  light  but  not  dazzle. 

"  What  does  it  matter  that  part  of  your  pleasure  in  such 
beings  has  its  source  in  the  poetry  of  your  own  youth  rather 
than  in  any  magic  of  theirs  ?  What,  that  perhaps,  ten  years 
hence,  you  may  smile  to  remember  your  present  recollections, 
and  view  under  another  light  both  ^  Currer  Bell '  and  his 
writings  ?  To  me  this  consideration  does  not  detract  from 
the  value  of  what  you  now  feel.  Youth  has  its  romance,  and 
maturity  its  wisdom,  as  morning  and  spring  have  their  fresh- 
ness, noon  and  summer  their  power,  night  and  winter  their 
repose.  Each  attribute  is  good  in  its  own  season.  Your 
letter  gave  me  pleasure,  and  I  thank  you  for  it. 

"  Currer  Eell." 

Miss  Bront(5  went  up  to  town  at  the  beginning  of  June, 
and  much  enjoyed  her  stay  there ;  seeing  very  few  persons, 
according  to  the  agreement  she  made  before  she  went ;  and 


INCIDENTS   OF   A   VISIT   TO   LONDON.  133 

limiting  her  visit  to  a  fortnight,  dreading  the  feverishness  and 
exhaustion  which  were  the  inevitable  consequences  of  the 
slightest  excitement  upon  her  susceptible  frame. 

**  June  12th. 

"  Since  I  wrote  to  you  last,  1  have  not  had  many  moments 

0  myself,  except  such  as  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  give 

0  rest.     On  the  whole,  however,  I  have  thus  far  got  on  very 

well,  suffering  much  less  from  exhaustion  than  I  did  last 

time. 

'^  Of  course  I  cannot  give  ]pou  in  a  letter  a  regular  chron- 
icle of  how  my  time  has  been  spent.  I  can  only  just  notify 
what  I  deem  three  of  its  chief  incidents  : — a  sight  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  at  the  Chapel  Eoyal  (he  is  a  real  grand 
old  man),  a  visit  to  the  House  of  Commons  (which  I  hope  to 
describe  to  you  some  day  when  I  see  you),  and  last,  not  least, 
an  interview  with  Mr.  Thackeray.  He  made  a  morning  call, 
and  sat  above  two  hours.  Mr.  Smith  only  was  in  the  room 
the  whole  time.  He  described  it  afterwards  as  a  ^  queer 
scene,'  and  I  suppose  it  was.  The  giant  sate  before  me ;  ? 
was  moved  to  speak  to  him  of  some  of  his  short-comings  (lit 
erary  of  course) ;  one  by  one  the  faults  came  into  my  head, 
and  one  by  one  I  brought  them  out,  and  sought  some  expla- 
nation or  defence.  He  did  defend  himself,  like  a  great  Turk 
and  heathen  that  is  to  say,  the  excuses  were  often  worse 
than  the  crime  itself.  The  matter  ended  in  decent  amity ; 
if  all  be  well,  I  am  to  dine  at  his  house  this  evening. 

"  I  have  seen  Lewes  too I  could  not  feel 

otherwise  to  him  than  half-sadly,  half-tenderly, — a  queer 
word  that  last,  but  I  use  it  because  the  aspect  of  Lewes's 
face  almost  moves  me  to  tears;  it  is  so  wonderfully  like 
Emily, — ^her  eyes,  her  features,  the  very  nose,  the  somewhat 
prominent  mouth,  the  forehead, — even,  at  moments,  the  ex- 
pression :  whatever  Lewes  says,  I  believe  I  cannot  hate  him. 


134  LIFE   OF   CriAKLOTTF    BRONTE. 

Another  likeness  I  liave  seen,  too,  that  touched  me  sorrow 
fully.  You  remember  my  speaking  of  a  Miss  K.,  a  young 
authoress,  who  supported  her  mother  by  writing  ?  Hearing 
that  she  had  a  longing  to  see  me,  I  called  on  her  yesterday. 

She  met  me  half-frankly,  half-tremblingly ;  we  sate 

down  together,  and  when  I  had  talked  with  her  five  minutes, 
her  face  was  no  longer  strang-e,  but  mournfully  familiar ; — it 
was  Martha*  in  every  lineament.     I  shall  try  to  find  a  mo- 
ment to  see  her  again.  .  .  .  .  .  I  do  not  intend  to  stay  here, 

at  the  furthest,  more  than  a  week  longer ;  but  at  the  end  of 
that  time  I  cannot  go  home,  for  the  house  at  Haworth  is  jus*, 
now  unroofed ;  repairs  were  become  necessary. 

She  soon  followed  her  letter  to  the  friend  to  whom  it  was 
written ;  but  her  visit  was  a  very  short  one,  for,  in  accord- 
ance with  a  plan  made  before  leaving  London,  she  went  on  to 
Edinburgh  to  join  the  friends  with  whom  she  had  been  staying 
in  town.  She  remained  only  a  few  days  in  Scotland,  and 
those  were  principally  spent  in  Edinburgh,  with  which  she 
was  delighted,  calling  London  a  "  dreary  place  "  in  compar- 
ison. 

''  My  stay  in  Scotland  "  (she  wrote  some  weeks  later) 
"  was  short,  and  what  I  saw  was  chiefly  comprised  in  Edin- 
burgh and  the  neighbourhood,  in  Abbotsford  and  in  Melrose, 
for  1  was  obliged  to  relinquish  my  first  intention  of  going 
from  Glasgow  to  Oban,  and  thence  through  a  portion  of  the 
Highlands ;  but  though  the  time  was  brief,  and  the  view  of 
objects  limited,  I  found  such  a  charm  of  situation,  associa- 
tion, and  circumstance,  that  I  think  the  enjoyment  expe- 
rienced in  that  little  space  equalled  in  degree,  and  excelled 
in  kind,  all  which  London  yielded  during  a  month's  sojourn. 
Edinburgh,  compared  to  London,  is  like  a  vivid  page  of  his- 

^  The  friend  of  her  youth,  who  died  at  Brussels. 


HER   IMPRESSIONS   OF   SCOTLAND.  135 

tory  compared  to  a  large  dull  treatise  on  political  ecouomy , 
and  as  to  Melrose  and  Abbotsford,  the  very  names  possess 
music  and  magic." 

And  again,  in  a  letter  to  a  different  correspondent,  slic 
says  : — 

"  I  would  not  write  to  you  immediately  on  my  arrival  at 
home,  because  each  return  to  this  old  house  brings  with  it  a 
phase  of  feeling  which  it  is  better  to  pass  through  quietly 
before  beginning  to  indite  letters.  The  six  weeks  of  change 
and  enjoyment  are  past,  but  they  are  not  lost ;  memory  took 
a  sketch  of  each  as  it  went  by,  and,  especially,  a  distinct  da- 
guerreotype of  the  two  days  I  spent  in  Scotland.  Those  were 
two  very  pleasant  days.  I  always  liked  Scotland  as  an  idea, 
but  now,  as  a  reality  I  like  it  far  better ;  it  furnished  me 
with  some  hours  as  happy  almost  as  any  I  ever  spent.  Do 
not  fear,  however,  that  I  am  going  to  bore  you  with  descrip- 
tion ;  you  will,  before  now,  have  received  a  pithy  and  pleas- 
ant report  of  all  things,  to  which  any  addition  of  mine  would 
be  superfluous.  ;  My  present  endeavours  are  directed  towards 
recalling  my  thoughts,  cropping  their  wings,  drilling  them 
into  correct  discipline,  and  forcing  them  to  settle  to  some 
useful  work  :  they  are  idle  and  keep  taking  the  train  down  to 
London,  or  making  a  foray  over  the  Border — especially  are 
they  prone  to  perpetrate  that  last  excursion ;  and  who,  in- 
deed, that  has  once  seen  Edinburgh,  with  its  couchant  crag- 
lion,  but  must  see  it  again  in  dreams,  waking  or  sleeping? 
My  dear  sir,  do  not  think  I  blaspheme,  when  I  tell  you  that 
your  great  London,  as  compared  to  Dun-Edin,  [  mine  own 
romantic  town,'  is  as  prose  compared  to  poetry,  or  as  a  great 
rumbling,  rambling,  heavy  epic  compared  to  a  lyric,  brief, 
bright,  clear,  and  vital  as  a  flash  of  lightning.  You  have 
nothing  like  Scott's  monument,  or,  if  you  had  that,  and  all 


136  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

tlie  glories  of  architecture  assembled  together,  yon  hayc  no 
thing  like  Arthur's  Seat,  and  above  all,  you  have  not  the 
Scotch  national  character;  and  it  is  that  grand  character 
after  all  which  gives  the  land  its  true  charm,  its  true  great- 
ness." 

On  her  return  from   Scotland,  she  again  spent  a  few 
days  with  her  friends,  and  then  made  her  way  to  Haworth. 

"July  15th. 

*^  I  got  home  very  well,  and  full  glad  was  I  that  no  in- 

superable  obstacle  had  deferred  my  return  one  single  day 

longer.     Just  at  the  foot  of  Bridgehouse  hill,  I  met  John — 

staff  in  hand ;  he  fortunately  saw  me  in  the  cab,  stopped,  and 

informed  me  he  was  setting  off  to  B ,  by  Mr.  Bronte's 

orders,  to  see  how  I  was,  for  that  he  had  been  quite  misera- 
ble ever  since  he  got  Miss 's  letter.  I  found  on  my  ar- 
rival, that  Papa  had  worked  himself  up  to  a  sad  pitch  of 
nervous  excitement  and  alarm,  in  which  Martha  and  Tabby 

were  but  too  obviously  joining  him The  house  looks 

very  clean,  and,  I  think,  is  not  damp ;  there  is,  however,  still 
a  great  deal  to  do  in  the  way  of  settling  and  arranging, — 
enough  to  keep  me  disagreeably  busy  for  some  time  to  come. 
I  was  truly  thankful  to  find  Papa  pretty  well,  but  I  fear  he 
is  just  beginning  to  show   symptoms  of  a   cold :  my  cold 

continues  better An  article  in  a  newspaper  I  found 

awaiting  me  on  my  arrival,  amused  me  ;  it  was  a  paper  pub- 
lished while  I  was  in  London.  I  enclose  it  to  give  you  a 
laugh ;  it  professes  to  be  written  by  an  Author  jealous  of 
Authoresses.  I  do  not  know  who  he  is,  but  he  must  be  one 
of  those  I  met.  .  .  .  .  The  '  ugly  men,'  giving  themselves 
*  Rochester  airs,'  is  no  bad  hit ;  some  of  those  alluded  to  will 
not  like  it." 


HER   POETRAIT   BY   RICHMOND.  137 

While  Miss  Bronte  was  staying  in  London,  she  was  in- 
duced to  sit  for  her  portrait  to  Richmond.  It  is  a  crayon 
drawing;  in  my  judgment  an  admirable  likeness,  though  of 
course  there  is  some  difference  of  opinion  on  the  subject ;  and, 
as  usual,  those  best  acquainted  with  the  original  were  least 
satisfied  with  the  resemblance.  Mr.  Bronte  thought  that  it 
looked  older  than  Charlotte  did,  and  that  her  features  had  not 
been  flattered  ,  but  he  acknowledged  that  the  expression  was 
wonderfully  good  and  life-like.  She  sent  the  following  amus- 
ing account  of  the  arrival  of  the  portrait  to  the  donor : — 

"Aug.  1st. 
"  The  little  box  for  me  came  at  the  same  time  as  the  large 
one  for  Papa.  When  you  first  told  me  that  you  had  had  the 
Duke's  picture  framed,  and  had  given  it  to  me,  I  felt  half 
provoked  with  you  for  performing  such  a  work  of  superero- 
gation, but  now,  when  I  see  it  again,  I  cannot  but  acknow- 
ledge that,  in  so  doing,  you  were  felicitously  inspired.  It  is 
his  very  image,  and,  as  Papa  said  when  he  saw  it,  scarcely  in 
the  least  like  the  ordinary  portraits ;  not  only  the  expres- 
sion, but  even  the  form  of  the  head  is  different,  and  of  a  far 
nobler  character.  I  esteem  it  a  treasure.  The  lady  who 
left  the  parcel  for  me  was,  it  seems,  Mrs.  Gore.  The  parcel 
/  contained  one  of  her  works,  '  The  Hamiltons,'  and  a  very 
civil  and  friendly  note,  in  which  I  find  myself  addressed  as 
'  Dear  Jane.'  Papa  seems  much  pleased  with  the  portrait 
as  do  the  few  other  persons  who  have  seen  it,  with  one  nota- 
ble exception ;  viz.,  our  old  servant,  who  tenaciously  main- 
tains that  it  is  not  like — that  it  is  too  old-looking ;  but  as 
she,  with  equal  tenacity,  asserts  that  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton's picture  is  a  portrait  of  *  the  Master '  (meaning  Papa), 
I  am  afraid  not  much  weight  is  to  be  ascribed  to  her  opin- 
ion ;  doubtless  she  confuses  her  recollections  of  me  as  I  was 
in  childhood  with  present  impressions.     Requesting  alwaya 


138  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

to  be  very  kindly  remembered  to  your  mother  and  sisters,  1 
am,  yours  very  thanklessly  (according  to  desire), 


It  may  easily  be  conceived  that  two  people  living  to- 
gether as  Mr.  Bronte  and  his  daughter  did,  almost  entirely 
dependent  on  each  other  for  society,  and  loving  each  other 
deeply  (although  not  demonstratively) — that  these  two  last 
members  of  a  family  would  have  their  moments  of  keen  anx- 
iety respecting  each  other's  health.  There  is  not  one  letter 
of  hers  which  I  have  read,  that  does  not  contain  some  men- 
tion of  her  father's  state  in  this  respect.  Either  she  thanks 
God  with  simple  earnestness  that  he  is  well,  or  some  infirmi- 
ties of  age  beset  him,  and  she  mentions  the  fact,  and  then 
winces  away  from  it,  as  from  a  sore  that  will  not  bear  to  be 
touched.  He,  in  his  turn,  noted  every  indisposition  of  his 
one  remaining  child's,  exaggerated  its  nature,  and  sometimes 
worked  himself  up  into  a  miserable  state  of  anxiety,  as  in  the 
case  she  refers  to,  when  her  friend  having  named  in  a  letter 
to  him  that  his  daughter  was  suffering  from  a  bad  cold,  he 
could  not  rest  till  he  despatched  a  messenger,  to  go,  "  staff 
in  hand,"  a  distance  of  fourteen  miles,  and  see  with  his.  own 
eyes  what  was  her  real  state,  and  return  and  report. 

She  evidently  felt  that  this  natural  anxiety  on  the  part 
of  her  father  and  friend  increased  the  nervous  depression  of 
her  own  spirits,  whenever  she  was  ill ;  and  in  the  following 
letter  she  expresses  her  strong  wish  that  the  subject  of  her 
health  should  be  as  little  alluded  to  as  possible. 

•■'Aug.  7th. 
"  I  am  truly  sorry  that  I  allowed  the  words  to  which  you 
refer  to  escape  my  lips,  since  their  effect  on  you  has  been  un- 
pleasant ;  but  try  to  chase  every  shadow  of  anxiety  from 
your  mind,  and,  unless  the  restraint  be  very  disagreeable  to 


NERVOUS    SENSIBILITY.  139 

you,  permit  me  to  add  an  earnest  request  tbat  you  will 
broach  the  subject  to  me  no  more.  It  is  the  undisguised  and 
most  harassing  anxiety  of  others  that  has  fixed  in  my  mind 
thoughts  and  expectations  which  must  canker  wherever  they 
take  root ;  against  which  every  effort  of  religion  or  philoso- 
phy must  at  times  totally  fail ;  and  subjugation  to  which  is 
a  cruel  terrible  fate — the  fate,  indeed,  of  him  whose  life  was 
passed  under  a  sword  suspended  by  a  horse-hair.  I  have 
had  to  entreat  Papa's  consideration  on  this  point.  My  ner- 
vous system  is  soon  wrought  on.  I  should  wish  to  keep  it 
in  rational  strength  and  coolness ;  but  to  do  so  I  must  de- 
terminedly resist  the  kindly-meant,  but  too  irksome  expres- 
sion of  an  apprehension,  for  the  realization  or  defeat  of 
which  I  have  no  possible  power  to  be  responsible.  At  pre- 
sent, I  am  pretty  well.  Thank  God  !  Papa,  I  trust,  is  no 
worse,  but  he  complains  of  weakness." 


140  LIFE   OF   CnAELO'ITE   BKO:^rTE. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

Her  father  was  always  anxious  to  procure  evcr^  change 
that  was  possible  for  her,  seeing,  as  he  did,  the  benelit  which 
she  derived  from  it,  however  reluctant  she  might  have  been 
to  leave  her  home  and  him  beforehand.  This  August  she 
was  invited  to  go  for  a  week  to  the  neighbourhood  of 
Bowness,  where  Sir  James  Kay  Shuttleworth  had  taken  a 
house ;  but  she  says,  "  I  consented  to  go,  with  reluctance, 
chiefly  to  please  Papa,  whom  a  refusal  on  my  part  would 
much  have  annoyed ;  but  I  dislike  to  leave  him.  I  trust 
he  is  not  worse,  but  his  complaint  is  still  weakness.  It  is 
not  right  to  anticipate  evil,  and  to  be  always  looking  forward 
with  an  apprehensive  spirit ;  but  I  think  grief  is  a  two-edged 
sword,  it  cuts  both  ways ;  the  memory  of  one  loss  is  the  an- 
ticipation of  another." 

It  was  during  this  visit  at  the  Briery — Lady  Kay  Shut- 
tleworth having  kindly  invited  me  to  meet  her  there — that 
I  first  made  acquaintance  with  Miss  Bronte.  If  I  copy  out 
part  of  a  letter,  which  I  wrote  soon  after  this  to  a  friend, 
who  was  deeply  interested  in  her  writings,  I  shall  probably 
convey  my  first  impressions  more  truly  and  freshly  than  by 
amplifying  what  I  then  said  into  a  longer  description. 

*'  Dark  when  I  got  to  Windermere  station ;  a  drive  along 


THE  author's  impeessions  of  miss  bkonte.      141 

the  level  road  to  Low-wood ;  tlien  a  stoppage  at  a  pretty 
house,  and  then  a  pretty  drawing-room,  in  which  were  Sir 
James  and  Lady  Kay  Shuttleworth,  and  a  little  lady  in  a 
black  silk  gown,  whom  I  could  not  see  at  first  for  the  dazzle 
in  the  room ;  she  came  up  and  shook  hands  with  me  at  once. 
I  went  up  to  unbonnet,  &c.,  came  down  to  tea ;  the  little 
lady  worked  away  and  Hardly  spoke,  but  I  had  time  for 
good  look  at  her.  She  is  (as  she  calls  herself)  undeveloped^ 
thin,  and  more  than  half  a  head  shorter  than  I  am ;  soft 
brown  hair,  not  very  dark ;  eyes  (very  good  and  expressive, 
looking  straight  and  open  at  you)  of  the  same  colour  as  her 
hair ;  a  large  mouth ;  the  forehead  square,  broad,  and  rather 
overhanging.  She  has  a  very  sweet  voice  ;  rather  hesitates 
in  choosing  her  expressions,  but  when  chosen  they  seem  with- 
out an  effort   admirable,  and  just  befitting  the  occasion ; 

there  is  nothing  overstrained,  but  perfectly  simple 

After  breakfast,  we  four  went  out  on  the  lake,  and  Miss 
Bronte  agreed  with  me  in  liking  Mr.  Newman's  ^  Soul,'  and 
in  liking  *  Modern  Painters,'  and  the  idea  of  the  ^  Seven 
Lamps ;  '  and  she  told  me  about  Father  Newman's  lectures 

at  the  Oratory  in  a  very  quiet,  concise,  graphic  way 

She  is  more  like  Miss than  any  one  in  her  ways — if  you 

can  fancy  Miss to  have  gone  through  suffering  enough 

to  have  taken  out  every  spark  of  merriment,  and  to  be  shy 
ap.d  silent  from  the  habit  of  extreme,  intense  solitude.  Such 
a  life  as  Miss  Bronte's  I  never  heard  of  before.  de- 
scribed her  home  to  me  as  in  a  village  of  grey  stone  houses, 
perched  up  on  the  north  side  of  a  bleak  moor,  looking  over 
sweeps  of  bleak  moors,  &c.  &c. 

"  We  were  only  three  days  together ;  the  greater  part  of 
which  was  spent  in  driving  about,  in  order  to  show  Miss 
Bronte  the  Westmoreland  scenery,  as  she  had  never  been 
there  before.  We  were  both  included  in  an  invitation  to 
irink  tea  quietly  at  Fox  How  \  and  I  then  saw  how  severely 


143  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

her  nerves  were  taxed  by  the  effort  of  going  amongst  stran- 
gers. We  knew  beforehand  that  the  number  of  the  party 
would  not  exceed  twelve  ;  but  she  suffered  the  whole  day 
from  an  acute  headache  brought  on  by  apprehension  of  the 
evening. 

"  Brierly  Close  was  situated  high  above  Low-wood,  and 
of  course  commanded  an  extensive  view  and  wide  horizon.  I 
was  struck  by  Miss  Bronte's  careful  examination  of  the  shape 
of  the  clouds  and  the  signs  of  the  heavens,  in  which  she  read, 
as  from  a  book,  what  the  coming  weather  would  be.  I  told 
her  that  I  saw  she  must  have  a  view  equal  in  extent  at  her 
own  home.  She  said  that  I  was  right,  but  that  the  charac- 
ter of  the  prospect  from  Ha  worth  was  very  different;  that  I 
had  no  idea  what  a  companion  the  sky  became  to  any  one 
living  in  solitude, — more  than  any  inanimate  object  on  earth 
— more  than  the  moors  themselves." 

The  following  extracts  convey  some  of  her  own  impres- 
sions and  feelings  respecting  this  visit : — 

"  You  said  I  should  stay  longer  than  a  week  in  West- 
moreland ;  you  ought  by  this  time  to  know  me  better.  Is 
it  my  habit  to  keep  dawdling  at  a  place  long  after  the  time 
I  first  fixed  on  for  departing  ?  I  have  got  home,  and  I  am 
thankful  to  say  Papa  seems, — to  say  the  least, — ^no  worse  than 
when  I  left  him,  yet  I  wish  he  were  stronger.  My  visit  pass- 
ed off  very  well ;  I  am  very  glad  I  went.  The  scenery  is,  of 
course,  grand ;  could  I  have  wandered  about  amongst  those 
hills  alone,  I  could  have  drank  in  all  their  beauty ; .  even  in 
a  carriage  with  company  it  was  very  well.  Sir  James  was 
all  the  while  as  kind  and  friendly  as  he  could  be ;  he  is  in 

much  better  health Miss  Martineau  was  from  home  ; 

she  always  leaves  her  house  at  Ambleside  during  the  Lake 


HER   IMPRESSIONS   OF   THE   LAKES.  143 

season,  to  avoid  the  influx  of  visitors  to  which  she  would 
otherwise  be  subject. 

*^  If  I  could  only  have  dropped  unseen  out  of  the  carriage, 
and  gone  away  by  myself  in  amongst  those  grand  hills  and 
sweet  dales,  I  should  have  drank  in  the  full  power  of  this 
glorious  scenery.  In  company  this  can  hardly  be.  Some- 
times, while was  warning  me  against  the  faults  of  the 

artist-class,  all  the  while  vagrant  artist  instincts  were  busy 
in  the  mind  of  his  listener. 

"  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that,  about  a  week  before  I  went  to 
Westmoreland,  there  came  an  invitation  to  Harden  Grange ; 
which,  of  course,  I  declined.  Two  or  three  days  after,  a 
large  party  made  their  appearance  here,  consisting  of  Mrs. 

F ,  and  sundry  other  ladies  and  two  gentlemen ;  one  tall 

and  stately,  black  haired  and  whiskered,  who  turned  out  to 
be  Lord  John  Manners, —  the  other  not  so  distinguished 
looking,  shy,  and  a  little  queer,  who  was  Mr.  Smythe,  the 
son  of  Lord  Strangford.  I  found  Mrs.  F.  a  true  lady  in 
manners  and  appearance,  very  gentle  and  unassuming. 
Lord  John  Manners  brought  in  his  hand  a  brace  of  grouse 
for  Papa,  which  was  a  well-timed  present :  a  day  or  two  be- 
fore Papa  had  been  wishing  for  some." 

To  these  extracts  I  must  add  one  other  from  a  letter  re- 
ferring to  this  time.  It  is  addressed  to  Miss  Wooler,  the 
kind  friend  of  both  her  girlhood  and  womanhood,  who 
had  invited  her  to  spend  a  fortnight  with  her  at  her  cottage 
lodgings. 

"Haworth,  Sept.  27th,  1850. 

"  When  I  tell  you  that  I  have  already  been  to  the  Lakes 

this  season,  and  that  it  is  scarcely  more  than  a  month  since 

I  returned,  you  will  understand  that  it  is  no  longer  within 

my  option  to  accept  your  kind  invitation.      I  wish  I  could 


144:  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTIE   BRONTE. 

have  gone  to  you.  I  have  already  had  my  excursion,  and 
there  is  an  end  of  it.  Sir  James  Kay  Shuttleworth  is  ve-r 
siding  near  Windermere,  at  a  house  called  the  ^  Eriery,'  and 
it  was  there  I  was  staying  for  a  little  time  this  August.  He 
very  kindly  showed  me  the  neighbourhood,  as  it  can  he  seen 
from  a  carriage^  and  I  discerned  that  the  Lake  country  is 
a  glorious  region,  of  which  I  had  only  seen  the  similitude  in 
dreams,  waking  or  sleeping.  Decidedly  I  find  it  does  not 
agree  with  me  to  prosecute  the  search  of  the  picturesque  in  a 
carriage.  A  waggon,  a  spring-cart,  even  a  post-chaise  might 
do  ;  but  the  carriage  upsets  everything.  I  longed  to  slip 
out  unseen,  and  to  run  away  by  myself  in  amongst  the  hills 
and  dales.  Erratic  and  vagrant  instincts  tormented  me,  and 
these  I  was  obliged  to  control,  or  rather  suppress,  for  fear  of 
growing  in  any  degree  enthusiastic,  and  thus  drawing  atten- 
tion to  the  ^  lioness  ' — the  authoress. 

"  You  say  that  you  suspect  I  have  formed  a  large  circle 
of  acquaintance  by  this  time.  No  :  I  cannot  say  that  I  have. 
I  doubt  whether  I  possess  either  the  wish  or  the  power  to 
do  so.  A  few  friends  I  should  like  to  have,  and  these  few  I 
should  like  to  know  well ;  if  such  knowledge  brought  pro- 
portionate regard,  I  could  not  help  concentrating  my  feel- 
ings ;  dissipation,  I  think,  appears  synonymous  with  dilution. 
However,  I  have,  as  yet,  scarcely  been  tried.  During  the 
month  I  spent  in  London  in  the  spring,  I  kept  very  quiet, 
having  the  fear  of  lionising  before  my  eyes.  I  only  went 
out  once  to  dinner ;  and  once  was  present  at  an  evening 
party ;  and  the  only  visits  I  have  paid  have  been  to  Sir 
James  Kay  Shuttle  worth's  and  my  publisher's.  From  this 
eystem  I  should  not  like  to  depart;  as  far  as  I  can  see, 
indiscriminate  visiting  tends  only  to  a  waste  of  time  and  a 
vulgarising  of  character.  Besides,  it  would  be  wrong  to 
leave  Papa  often ;  he  is  now  in  his  seventy-fifth  year,  the 
infirmities  of  age  begin  to  creep  upon  him ;  during   the  sum- 


LETTER  TO  THE  AUTHORESS.  115 

mer  lie  lias  been  mucli  harassed  by  cbronic  broncliitls,  but  I 
am  thankful  to  say  that  he  is  now  somewhat  better.  I 
think  my  own  health  has  derived  benefit  from  change  and 
exercise. 

"  Somebody  in  D professes  to  have  authority  for  say- 
ing, that  '  when  Miss  Bronte  was  in  London  she  neglected 
to  attend  Divine  service  on  the  Sabbath,  and  in  the  week 
jjpent  her  time  in  going  about  to  balls,  theatres,  and  operas.' 
On  the  other  hand,  the  London  quidnuncs  make  my  seclu- 
sion a  matter  of  wonder,  and  devise  twenty  romantic  fictions 
to  account  for  it.  Formerly  I  used  to  listen  to  report  with 
interest,  and  a  certain  credulity ;  but  I  am  now  grown  deaf 
and  sceptical ;  experience  has  taught  me  how  absolutely 
devoid  of  foundation  her  stories  may  be." 

I  must  now  quote  from  the  first  letter  I  had  the  privi- 
lege of  receiviDg  from  Miss  Bronte.  It  is  dated  August 
the  27th. 

"  Papa  and  I  have  just  had  tea ;  he  is  sitting  quietly  in 
his  room,  and  I  in  mine ;  '  storms  of  rain '  are  sweeping 
over  the  garden  and  churchyard :  as  to  the  moors,  they  are 
hidden  in  thick  fog.  Though  alone,  I  am  not  unhappy ;  I 
have  a  thousand  things  to  bo  thankful  for,  and,  amongst  the 
rest,  that  this  morning  I  received  a  letter  from  you,  and  that 
this  evening  I  have  the  priyilege  of  answering  ifc. 

"  I  do  not  know  the  ^  Life  of  Sydney  Taylor;  '  when- 
ever I  have  the  opportunity  I  will  get  it.  The  little  French 
book  you  mentioned  shall  also  take  its  place  on  the  list  of 
books  to  be  procured  as  soon  as  possible.  It  treats  a  sub- 
ject interesting  to  all  women — ^perhaps,  more  especially  to 
single  women ;  though,  indeed,  mothers,  like  you,  study  it 
for  the  sake  of  their  daughters.  The  ^  Westminster  Eeview  ' 
is  not  a  periodical  I  see  regularly,  but  some  time  since  I 

VOL.  11— 7 


146  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

got  hold  of  a  number — for  last  January,  I  tliink-— in  which 
there  was  an  article  entitled  *  Woman's  Mission '  (the 
phrase  is  hackneyed),  containing  a  great  deal  that  seemed  to 
nie  just  and  sensible.  Men  begin  to  regard  the  position  of 
woman  in  another  light  than  they  used  to  do;  and  a  few 
men,  whose  sympathies  are  fine  and  whose  sense  of  justice  is 
etrong,  think  and  speak  of  it  with  a  candour  that  commands 
my  admiration.  They  say,  however — and,  to  an  extent, 
truly — that  the  amelioration  of  our  condition  depends  on 
ourselves.  Certainly  there  are  evils  which  our  own  efforts 
will  best  reach ;  but  as  certainly  there  are  other  evils — 
deep-rooted  in  the  foundations  of  the  social  system  — 
which  no  efforts  of  ours  can  touch  :  of  which  we  cannot 
complain  ;  of  which  it  is  advisable  not  too  often  to  think. 

^^  I  have  read  Tennyson's  ^  In  Memoriam,'  or  rather  part 
of  it ;  I  closed  the  book  when  I  had  got  about  half  way.  It 
is  beautiful ;  it  is  mournful ;  it  is  monotonous.  Many  of 
the  feelings  expressed  bear,  in  their  utterance,  the  stamp  of 
truth ;  yet,  if  Arthur  Hallam  had  been  somewhat  nearer 
Alfred  Tennyson, — his  brother  instead  of  his  friend, — I 
should  have  distrusted  this  rhymed,  and  measured,  and 
printed  monument  of  grief.  What  change  the  lapse  of  years 
may  work  I  do  not  know ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  bitter 
sorrow,  while  recent,  does  not  flow  out  in  verse. 

*'  I  promised  to  send  you  Wordsworth's  ^  Prelude,'  and, 
accordingly,  despatch  it  by  this  post ;  the  other  little  volume 
shall  follow  in  a  day  or  two.  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from 
you  whenever  you  have  time  to  write  to  me,  hut  you  are 
never,  on  any  account^  io  do  this  except  when  inclination 
prompts  and  leisure  permits.  I  should  never  thank  you 
for  a  letter  which  you  had  felt  it  a  task  to  write." 

A  short  time  after  we  had  met  at  the  Briery,  she  sent  me 
tnc  volume  of  Currer,  Ellis,  and  Acton  Bell's  poems ;  and 


IIEK   IMPKESSIONS   OF   SCOTLAND.  147 

thus   alludes   to  them   in    the   note  that   accompanied  tho 
parcel : — 

*'  The  little  book  of  rhymes  was  sent  by  way  of  fulfilling 
a  rashly  made  promise ;  and  the  promise  was  made  to  pre- 
vent you  from  throwing  away  four  shillings  in  an  injudicious 
purchase.  I  do  not  like  my  own  share  of  the  work,  nor  care 
that  it  should  be  read  :  Ellis  Bell's  I  think  good  and  vigor- 
ous, and  Acton's  have  the  merit  of  truth  and  simplicity. 
Mine  are  chiefly  juvenile  productions  ;  the  restless  efferves- 
cence of  a  mind  that  would  not  be  still.  In  those  days,  the 
sea  too  often  *  wrought  and  was  tempestuous,'  and  weed,  sand, 
shingle — all  turned  up  in  the  tumult.  This  image  is  much 
too  magniloquent  for  the  subject,  but  you  will  pardon  it." 

Another  letter  of  some  interest  was  addressed,  about  this 
time,  to  a  literary  friend,  on  Sept.  5th  : — 

^'  The  reappearance  of  the  ^  Athenseum  '  is  very  accepta- 
ble, not  merely  for  its  own  sake, — though  I  esteem  the  op- 
portunity of  its  perusal  a  privilege, — but  because,  as  a  weekly 
token  of  the  remembrance  of  friends,  it  cheers  and  gives 
pleasure.  I  only  fear  that  its  regular  transmission  may  be- 
come a  task  to  you ;  in  this  case,  discontinue  it  at  once. 

"  I  did  indeed  enjoy  my  trip  to  Scotland,  and  yet  I  saw 
jittle  of  the  face  of  the  country;  nothing  of  its  grander  or 
finer  scenic  features  :  but  Edinburgh,  Melrose,  Abbotsford — 
these  three  in  themselves  sufficed  to  stir  feelings  of  such  deep 
interest  and  admiration,  that  neither  at  the  time  did  I  re- 
gret, nor  have  I  since  regretted,  the  want  of  wider  space  over 
which  to  diffuse  the  sense  of  enjoyment.  There  was  room 
and  variety  enough  to  be  very  happy,  and  ^  enough,'  the 
proverb  says,  ^  is  as  good  as  a  feast.'  The  queen,  indeed, 
was  right  to  climb  Arthur's  Seat  with  her  husband  and  chil- 
dren,    I  shall  not  soon  forget  how  I  felt  when,  having  reached 


14:8  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

its  summit,  we  all  sat  down  and  looked  over  tlie  cily — -to- 
wards the  sea  and  Leith,  and  the  Pentland  Hills.  No  doubt 
you  are  proud  of  being  a  native  of  Scotland, — proud  of  your 
country,  her  capital,  her  children,  and  her  literature.  You 
cannot  be  blamed. 

"  The  article  in  the  ^  Palladium  is  one  of  those  notices 
over  which  an  author  rejoices  trembling.  He  rejoices  to  find 
his  work  finely,  fully,  fervently  appreciated,  and  trembles 
under  the  responsibility  such  appreciation  seems  to  devolve 
upon  him.  I  am  counselled  to  wait  and  watch — D.  V.  I 
will  do  so ;  yet  it  is  harder  to  wait  with  the  hands  bound, 
and  the  observant  and  reflective  faculties  at  their  silent  and 
unseen  work,  than  to  labour  mechanically. 

^'  I  need  not  say  how  I  felt  the  remarks  on  ^  Wuthering 
Heights  ;  '  they  woke  the  saddest  yet  most  grateful  feelings ; 
they  are  true,  they  are  discriminating,  they  are  full  of  late 
justice,  but  it  is  very  late — alas  !  in  one  sense,  too  late.  Of 
this,  however,  and  of  the  pang  of  regret  for  a  light  prema- 
turely extinguished,  it  is  not  wise  to  speak  much.  Whoever 
the  author  of  this  article  may  be,  I  remain  his  debtor. 

"  Yet  you  see,  even  here,  ^  Shirley '  is  disparaged  in  com- 
parison with  *  Jane  Eyre  ; '  and  yet  I  took  great  pains  with 
"  Shirley.'  I  did  not  hurry ;  I  tried  to  do  my  best,  and  my 
own  impression  was  that  it  was  not  inferior  to  the  former 
work ;  indeed,  I  had  bestowed  on  it  more  time,  thought,  and 
anxiety :  but  great  part  of  it  was  written  under  the  shadow 
of  impending  calamity ;  and  the  last  volume,  I  cannot  deny, 
was  composed  in  the  eager,  restless  endeavour  to  combat 
mental  sufierings  that  were  scarcely  tolerable. 

*'  You  sent  the  tragedy  of  *  Galileo  Galilei,'  by  Samuel 
Brown,  in  one  of  the  Cornhiil  parcels  ;  it  contained,  I  remem- 
ber, passages  of  very  great  beauty.  Whenever  you  send  any 
more  books  (but  that  must  not  be  till  I  return  what  I  now 
have)  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  include  amongst  them 


•*•  Lli^E   OF    SYDNEY    TAYLOU."  149 

the  ^  Life  of  Dr.  Arnold.'  Do  you  know  also  the  ^  Life  of 
Sydney  Taylor  ?  '  I  am  not  familiar  even  with,  the  name, 
but  it  has  been  recommended  to  me  as  a  work  meriting  pe- 
rusal. Of  course,  when  I  name  any  book,  it  is  always  un- 
derstood that  it  should  be  quite  convenient  to  send  it." 


ITjO  i.rFK  OF  cifAELOTTE  ijuorrjii 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

It  was  thought  desirable  about  this  time,  to  republish 
"  "Wuthering  Heights  "  and  "  Agnes  Grey,"  the  works  of  the 
two  sisters,  and  Charlotte  undertook  the  task  of  editing 
them. 

She  wrote  to  Mr.  Williams,  September  29th,  1850,  "  It 
is  my  intention  to  write  a  few  lines  of  remark  on  *  Wuthering 
Pleights,'  which,  however,  I  propose  to  place  apart  as  a  brief 
preface  before  the  tale.  I  am  likewise  compelling  myself  to 
read  it  over,  for  the  iSrst  time  of  opening  the  book  since  my 
sister's  death.  Its  power  fills  me  with  renewed  admiration ; 
but  yet  I  am  oppressed :  the  reader  is  scarcely  ever  permit- 
ted a  taste  of  unalloyed  pleasure  ;  every  beam  of  sunshine  is 
poured  down  through  black  bars  of  threatening  cloud ;  every 
page  is  surcharged  with  a  sort  of  moral  electricity ;  and  the 
writer  was  unconscious  of  all  this — nothing  could  make  her 
conscious  of  it. 

''  And  this  makes  me  reflect, — perhaps  i  am  too  incapable 
of  perceiving  the  faults  and  peculiarities  of  my  own  style. 

"  I  should  wish  to  revise  the  proofs,  if  it  be  not  too  great 
an  inconvenience  to  send  them.  It  seems  to  me  advisable  to 
modify  the  orthography  of  the  old  servant  Joseph's  speeches ; 
for  though,  as  it  stands,  it  exactly  renders  the  Yorkshire  dia 


SOLITUDE    AND   DEPRESSION.  151 

lect  to  a  Yorkshire  ear,  yet,  I  am  sure  Southerns  must  find 
it  unintelligible  ;  and  thus  one  of  the  most  graphic  characters 
in  the  book  is  lost  on  them. 

^'  I  grieve  to  say  that  I  possess  no  portrait  of  either  of  my 
sisters." 

To  her  own  dear  friend,  as  to  one  who  had  known  and 
loved  her  sisters,  she  writes  still  more  fully  respecting  the 
painfulness  of  her  task. 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong,  and  I  am  writing  jcu  a  line  as 
you  desire,  merely  to  say  that  I  am  busy  just  now.  Mr.  Smith 
wishes  to  reprint  some  of  Emily's  and  Annie's  works, 
with  a  few  little  additions  from  the  papers  they  have  left , 
and  I  have  been  closely  engaged  in  revising,  transcribing, 
preparing  a  preface,  notice,  &c.  As  the  time  for  doing  this 
is  limited,  I  am  obliged  to  be  industrious.  I  found  the  task 
at  first  exquisitely  painful  and  depressing ;  but  regarding  it 
in  the  light  of  a  sacred  duiy^  I  went  on,  and  now  can  bear 
it  better.  It  is  work,  however,  that  I  cannot  do  in  the  even- 
ing, for  if  I  did,  I  should  have  no  sleep  at  night.  Papa,  I 
am  thankful  to  say,  is  in  improved  health,  and  so,  I  think,  am 
I ;  I  trust  you  are  the  same. 

"  I  have  just  received  a  kind  letter  from  Miss  Martineau. 
She  has  got  back  to  Ambleside,  and  had  heard  of  my  visit  to 
the  Lakes.  She  expressed  her  regret,  &c.,  at  not  being  at 
home. 

"  I  am  both  angry  and  surprised  at  myself  for  not  being 
in  better  spirits;  for  not  growing  accustomed,  or  at  least 
resigned,  to  the  solitude  and  isolation  of  my  lot.  But  my 
late  occupation  left  a  result  for  some  days,  and  indeed  still, 
very  painful.  The  reading  over  of  papers,  the  renewal 
of  remembrances  brought  back  the  pang  of  bereavement,  and 
occasioned  a  depression  of  spirits  well  nigh  intolerable.     For 


152  LIFE    OF    ClIARLOTIE    BRONTE. 

one  or  two  nights,  I  scarcely  knew  liow  to  get  on  till  morn 
ing ;  and  when  morning  came,  I  was  still  haunted  with  a 
sense  of  sickening  distress.  I  tell  you  these  things,  because 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  me  to  have  some  relief.  You 
will  forgive  me,  and  not  trouble  yourself,  or  imagine  that  I 
am  one  whit  worse  than  I  say.  It  is  quite  a  mental  ailment, 
and  I  believe  and  hope  is  better  now.  I  think  so,  because  I 
can  speak  about  it,  which  I  never  can  when  grief  is  at  its 
w^orst. 

"  I  thought  to  find  occupation  and  interest  in  writing, 
when  alone  at  home,  but  hitherto  my  efforts  have  been  vain ; 
the  deficiency  of  every  stimulus  is  so  complete.  You  will 
recommend  me,  I  dare  say,  to  go  from  home ;  but  that  does 
no  good,  even  could  I  again  leave  Papa  with  an  easy  mind 
(thank  God  !  he  is  better).  I  cannot  describe  what  a  time 
of  it  I  had  after  my  return  from  London,  Scotland,  &c. 
There  was  a  reaction  that  sunk  me  to  the  earth ;  the  deadly 
silence,  solitude,  desolation,  were  awful ;  the  craving  for  com- 
panionship, the  hopelessness  of  relief,  were  w^hat  I  should 
dread  to  feel  again. 

"  Dear ,  when  I  think  of  you,  it  is  with  a  compas- 
sion and  tenderness  that  scarcely  cheer  me.  Mentally,  I  fear 
you  also  are  too  lonely  and  too  little  occupied.  It  seems  oui 
doom,  for  the  present  at  least.  May  God  in  His  mercy  help 
us  to  bear  it  1  " 

During  her  last  visit  to  London  as  mentioned  in  one  of 
her  letters,  she  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  her  correspond- 
ent, Mr.  Lewes.     That  gentleman  says  : — 

"  Some  months  after  "  (the  appearance  of  the  review  of 
"  Shirley  '^  in  the  "  Edinburgh"),  "  Currer  Bell  came  to  Lon- 
don, and  I  was  invited  to  meet  her  at  your  house.  You  may 
remember,  she  asked  you  not  to  point  me  out  to  her,  but  al- 


HER   OPINIONS   OF   BALZAC    AND   GEOKGE   SAND.     153 

low  Iier  to  discover  me  if  slie  could.  She  did  recognise  mo 
almost  as  soon  as  I  came  into  the  room.  You  tried  me  in 
the  same  way ;  I  was  less  sagacious.  However,  I  sat  by  her 
side  a  great  part  of  the  evening,  and  was  greatly  interested 
by  her  conversation.  On  parting  we  shook  hands,  and  she 
said,  ^  We  are  friends  now,  are  we  not  ?  '  *  Were  we  not  al- 
ways, then  ?  '  I  asked.  *  No  !  not  always,'  she  said,  signifi- 
cantly ;  and  that  was  the  only  allusion  she  made  to  the  of- 
fending article.  I  lent  her  some  of  Balzac's  and  George 
Sand's  novels  to  take  with  her  into  the  country ;  and  the  fol- 
lowing letter  was  written  when  they  were  returned :  " — 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  have  thought  me  very  dilatory  in 
returning  the  books  you  so  kindly  lent  me.  The  fact  is, 
having  some  other  books  to  send,  I  retained  yours  to  enclose 
them  in  the  same  parcel. 

"  Accept  my  thanks  for  some  hours  of  pleasant  reading. 
Balzac  was  for  me  quite  a  new  author ;  and  in  making  his 
acquaintance,  through  the  medium  of  ^  Modesto  Mignon,'  and 
'  Illusions  perdues,'  you  cannot  doubt  I  have  felt  some  inter- 
est. At  first,  I  thought  he  was  going  to  be  painfully  minute, 
and  fearfully  tedious  ;  one  grew  impatient  of  his  long  parade 
of  detail,  his  slow  revelation  of  unimportant  circumstances, 
as  he  assembled  his  personages  on  the  stage  ;  but  by  and  bye 
I  seemed  to  enter  into  the  mystery  of  his  craft,  and  to  dis- 
cover, with  delight,  where  his  force  lay :  is  it  not  in  the  analy- 
sis of  motive,  and  in  a  subtle  perception  of  the  most  obscure 
and  secret  workings  of  the  mind  ?  Still,  admire  Balzac  as 
we  may,  I  think  we  do  not  like  him ;  we  rather  feel  towards 
him  as  towards  an  ungenial  acquaintance  who  L  forever  hold- 
ing up  in  strong  light  our  defects,  and  who  rarely  draws  forth 
our  better  qualities. 

"  Truly,  I  like  George  Sand  better. 

"  Fantastic,  fanatical,  unpractical  enthusiast  as  she  oftcB 
h> — far  from  truthful  as  are  many  of  her  views  of  life — mis- 

VOL.  II 7* 


151'  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONTE, 

led,  as  slie  is  apt  to  be,  by  ber  feelings — George  Saud  bas  a 
better  nature  than  M.  de  Balzac ;  ber  brain  is  larger,  ber 
beart  warmer  tban  bis.  Tbe  ^  Lettres  d'un  Voyageur  '  are 
full  of  tbe  writer's  self;  and  I  never  felt  so  strongly,  as  in 
tbe  perusal  of  tbis  work,  tbat  most  of  ber  very  faults  spring 
from  tbe  excess  of  ber  good  qualities  :  it  is  tbis  excess  wbicb 
bas  often  burried  ber  into  difficulty,  wbicb  bas  prepared  for 
ber  enduring  regret. 

*^  But  I  believe  ber  mind  is  of  tbat  order  wbicb  disastrous 
experience  teacbes,  witbout  weakening  or  too  mucb  dishearten- 
ing ;  and,  in  tbat  case,  tbe  longer  sbe  lives  tbe  better  sbe 
will  grow.  A  bopeful  point  in  all  ber  writings  is  tbe  scar- 
city of  false  French  sentiment ;  I  wish  I  could  say  its  ab- 
sence ;  but  the  weed  flourishes  here  and  there,  even  in  the 
'Lettres.'" 

I  remember  the  good  expression  of  disgust  which  Miss 
Bronte  made  use  of  in  speaking  to  me  of  some  of  Balzac's 
novels  :  "  They  leave  such  a  bad  taste  in  my  mouth. " 

The  reader  will  notice  that  most  of  tbe  letters  from  which 
I  now  quote  are  devoted  to  critical  and  literary  subjects. 
These  were,  indeed,  ber  principal  interests  at  this  time ;  the 
revision  of  ber  sister's  works,  and  writing  a  short  memoir  of 
them,  was  the  painful  employment  of  every  day  during  the 
dreary  autumn  of  1850.  Wearied  out  by  the  vividness  of 
ber  sorrowful  recollections,  she  sought  relief  in  long  walks 
on  the  moors.  A  friend  cf  hers,  who  wrote  to  me  on  the 
appearance  of  tbe  eloquent  article  in  the  "  Daily  News  "  upon 
the  "  Death  of  Currer  Bell,"  gives  an  anecdote  which  may 
well  come  in  here. 

"  They  are  mistaken  in  saying  she  was  too  weak  to  roam 
the  bills  for  tbe  benefit  of  the  air.  I  do  not  think  any  one, 
certainly  not  any  woman,  in  this  locality,  went  so  much  on 
the  moors  us  she  did,  when  the  weather  permitted      Inieed, 


A   CIlARACrERISTIC   INCIDENT.  155 

she  was  so  much  in  the  habit  of  doing  so,  that  people,  who 
live  quite  away  on  the  edge  of  the  common,  knew  her  per- 
fectly well.  I  remember  on  one  occasion  an  old  woman  saw 
her  at  a  little  distance,  and  she  called  out,  ^  How !  Miss 
Bronte  !  Hey  yah  (have  you)  seen  ought  o'  my  cofe  (calf)?"' 
Miss  Bronte  told  her  she  could  not  say,  for  she  did  not  know 
it.  *  Well !'  she  said,  ^  Yah  know,  it's  getting  up  like  nah 
(now),  between  a  cah  (cow)  and  a  cofe — v/hat  we  call  a  stirk, 
yah  know.  Miss  Bronte ;  will  yah  turn  it  this  way  if  yah 
happen  to  see't,  as  yah're  going  back.  Miss  Bronte  ;  nah  do, 
Miss  Bronte.'  " 

It  must  have  been  about  this  time  that  a  v'sit  was  paid 
to  her  by  some  neighbours,  who  were  introduced  to  her  by  a 
mutual  friend.  This  visit  has  been  described  in  a  letter  from 
which  I  am  permitted  to  give  extracts,  which  will  show  the 
impression  made  upon  strangers  by  the  character  of  the 
country  round  her  home,  and  other  circumstances.  "  Though 
the  weather  was  drizzly,  we  resolved  to  make  our  long-plan- 
ned excursion  to  Haworth ;  so  we  packed  ourselves  into  the 
buffalo-skin,  and  that  into  the  gig,  and  set  off  about  eleven. 
The  rain  ceased,  and  the  day  was  just  suited  to  the  scenerj^, 
— wild  and  chill,— with  great  masses  of  cloud  glooming  over 
the  moors,  and  here  and  there  a  ray  of  sunshine  covertly  steal- 
ing through,  and  resting  with  a  dim  magical  light  upon  some 
high  bleak  village ;  or  darting  down  into  some  deep  glen, 
lighting  up  the  tall  chimney  or  glistening  on  the  windows 
and  wet  roof  of  the  mill  which  lies  couching  in  the  bottom. 
The  country  got  wilder  and  wilder  as  we  approached  Ha- 
worth ;  for  the  last  four  miles  we  were  ascending  a  huge 
moor,  at  the  very  top  of  which  lies  the  dreary  black-looking 
village  of  Haworth.  The  village-street  itself  is  one  of  the 
steepest  hills  I  have  ever  seen,  and  the  stones  are  so  horribly 
jolting  that  I  shculd  have  got  out  and  walked  with  W -, 


156  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

if  possible,  but,  having  once  begun  the  ascent,  to  stop  waa 
out  of  the  question.  At  the  top  was  the  inn  where  we  put  up^ 
close  by  the  church ;  and  the  clergyman's  house,  we  were 
told,  was  at  the  top  of  the  churchyard.  So  through  that  wo 
went, — a  dreary,  dreary  place,  being  literally  paved  with  rain- 
blackened  tombstones,  and  all  on  the  slope,  for  at  Haworth 
there  is  on  the  highest  height  a  higher  still,  and  Mr.  Bronte's 
house  stands  considerably  above  the  church.  There  was  the 
bouse  before  us,  a  small  oblong  stone  house,  with  not  a  tree  to 
screen  it  from  the  cutting  wind  ;  but  how  we  were  to  get  at 
it  from  the  churchyard  we  could  not  see  !  There  was  an 
old  man  in  the  churchyard,  brooding  like  a  Ghoul  over  the 
graves,  with  a  sort  of  grim  hilarity  on  his  face.  I  thought 
he  looked  hardly  human ;  however,  he  was  human  enough  to 
tell  us  the  way ;  and  presently  we  found  ourselves  in  the 
little  bare  parlour.  Presently  the  door  opened,  and  in  came 
a  superannuated  mastiff,  followed  by  an  old  gentleman  very 
like  Miss  Bronte,  who  shook  hands  with  us,  and  then  went 
to  call  his  daughter.  A  long  interval,  during  which  we 
coaxed  the  old  dog,  and  looked  at  a  picture  of  Miss  Bronte, 
by  Bichmond,  the  solitary  ornament  of  the  room,  looking 
strangely  out  of  place  on  the  bare  walls,  and  at  the  books  on 
the  little  shelves,  most  of  them  evidently  the  gift  of  the 
authors  since  Miss  Bronte 's  celebrity.  Presently  she  came 
in,  and  welcomed  us  very  kindly,  and  took  me  upstairs  to 
take  off  my  bonnet,  and  herself  brought  me  water  and  towels. 
The  uncarpeted  stone  stairs  and  floors,  the  old  drawers  prop- 
ped on  wood,  were  all  scrupulously  clean  and  neat.  When 
we  went  into  the  parlour  again,  we  began  talking  very  com- 
fortably, when  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Bronte  looked  in ; 
seeing  his  daughter  there,  I  suppose  he  thought  it  was  all 
right,  and  he  retreated  to  his  st«dy  on  the  opposite  side  of 

the  passage ;  presently  emerging  again  to  bring  W a 

country  newspaper.      This  was  his  last  appearance  till  we 


A    VISIT   TO   IIAWOETII   PARSONAGE.  157 

wont.  Miss  Bronte  spoke  with  tlie  greatest  warmtli  of  Miss 
Martineau,  and  of  the  good  she  had  gained  from  her.  Well ! 
we  talked  about  various  things  ;  the  character  of  the  people, 
— about  her  solitude,  &c.,  till  she  left  the  room  to  help  about 
dinner,  I  suppose,  for  she  did  not  return  for  an  age.  The  old 
dog  had  vanished ;  a  fat  curlj-haired  dog  honoured  us  with  his 
company  for  some  time,  but  finally  manifested  a  wish  to  get 
out,  so  we  were  left  alone.  At  last  she  returned,  followed 
by  the  maid  and  dinner,  which  made  us  all  more  comfortable ; 
and  we  had  some  very  pleasant  conversation,  in  the  midst  of 
which  time  passed  quicker  than  we  supposed,  for  at  last 

W '  found  that  it  was  half-past  three,  and  we  had  fourteen 

or  fifteen  miles  before  us.  So  we  hurried  ofi*,  having  obtained 
from  her  a  promise  to  pay  us  a  visit  in  the  spring ;  and  the 
old  gentleman  having  issued  once  more  from  his  study  to  say 
good-bye,  we  returned  to  the  inn,  and  made  the  best  of  our 
way  homewards. 

"  Miss  Bronte  put  me  in  mind  of  her  own  '  Jane  Eyre.' 
She  looked  smaller  than  ever,  and  moved  about  so  quietly, 
and  noiselessly,  just  like  a  little  bird,  as  Rochester  called 
her,  barring  that  all  birds  are  joyous,  and  that  joy  can  never 
have  entered  that  house  since  it  was  first  built ;  and  yet, 
perhaps,  when  that  old  man  married,  and  took  home  his 
bride,  and  children's  voices  and  f^et  were  heard  about  the 
^,  house,  even  thab  desolate  crowded  grave-yard  and  biting 
blast  could  not  quench  cheerfulness  and  hope.  Now  there 
is  something  touching  in  the  sight  of  that  little  creature  en- 
tombed in  such  a  place,  and  moving  about  herself  like  a 
spirit,  especially  when  you  think  that  the  slight  still  frame 
encloses  a  force  of  strong  fiery  life,  which  nothing  has  been 
able  to  freeze  or  extinguish.*' 

In  one  of  the  preceding  letters,  Miss  Bronte  referred  to 
Hn  article  in  the  "  Palladium,"  which  had  rendered  whai 


15S  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTIE   BRONTfi. 

she  considered  the  due  meed  of  merit  to  "  Wuthering 
Heights,"  her  sister  Emily's  tale.  Her  own  works  were 
praised,  and  praised  with  discrimination,  and  she  was  grate- 
ful for  this.  But  her  warm  heart  was  filled  to  the  brim 
with  kindly  feelings  towards  him  who  had  done  justice  to 
the  dead.  She  anxiously  sought  out  the  name  of  the  writer ; 
and  having  discovered  that  it  was  Mr.  Sydney  Dobell,  he 
immediately  became  one  of  her 

"Peculiar  people  whom  Death  had  made  dear.*' 

She  looked  with  interest  upon  everything  he  wrote ;  and 
before  long  we  shall  find  that  they  corresponded. 

TO  W.  S.  WILLIAMS,  ESQ. 

"  Oct.  25tli. 

"  The  box  of  books  came  last  night,  and,  as  usual,  I  have 
only  gratefully  to  admire  the  selection  made  :  ^  Jefi'rey's  Es- 
says,' '  Dr.  Arnold's  Life,'  '  The  Koman,'  ^  Alton  Locke,' 
these  were  all  wished  for  and  welcome. 

"  You  say  I  keep  no  books ;  pardon  me — I  am  ashamed 
of  my  own  rapaciousness  :  I  have  kept  '  Macaulay's  History,' 
and  Wordsworth'3  ^  Prelude,'  and  Taylor's  ^  Philip  Yan 
Artevelde.'  I  soothe  my  conscience  by  saying  that  the  tv/o 
last, — being  poetry — do  not  count.  This  is  a  convenient 
doctrine  for  me :  I  meditate  acting  upon  it  with  reference 
to  the  ^  Roman  so  I  trust  nobody  in  Cornhill  will  dispute 
its  validity  or  affirm  that  *  poetry  has  a  value,  except  for 
trunk-makers. 

"  I  have  already  had  ^  Macaulay's  Essays,'  ^  Sidney 
Smith's  Lectures  on  Moral  Philosophy,'  and  ^  Knox  on 
Race.'  Pickering's  work  on  the  same  subject  I  have  not 
seen ;  nor  all  the  volumes  of  Leigh  Hunt's  Autobiography. 
However,  I  am  now  abundantly  supplied  for  a  long  time  to 
come,     I  liked  Hazlitt's  Essays  much. 


CRITICISM    ON   THE    '^  K0M.4N."  159 

"  The  autumn,  as  you  say,  lias  been  very  fine.  I  and 
fiolitude  and  memory  have  often  profited  by  its  sunshine  on 
the  moors. 

"  I  had  felt  some  disappointment  at  the  non-arrival  of 
the  proof-sheets  of  *  Wuthering  Heights ;  '  a  feverish  impa- 
tience to  complete  the  revision  is  apt  to  beset  me.  The  work 
of  looking  over  papers,  &c.,  could  not  be  gone  through  with 
impunity,  and  with  unaltered  spirits  ;  associations  too  tender, 
regrets  too  bitter,  sprang  out  of  it.  Meantime,  the  Cornhill 
books  now,  as  heretofore,  are  my  best  medicine, — afibrding  a 
solace  which  could  not  be  yielded  by  the  very  same  books 
procured  from  a  common  library. 

"  Already  I  have  read  the  greatest  part  of  the  ^  Roman; 
passages  in  it  possess  a  kindling  virtue  such  as  true  poetry 
alone  can  boast;  there  are  images  of  genuine  grandeur; 
there  are  lines  that  at  once  stamp  themselves  on  the  memory. 
Can  it  be  true  that  a  new  planet  has  risen  on  the  heaven, 
whence  all  stars  seemed  fast  fading  ?  I  believe  it  is ;  for 
this  Sydney  or  Dobell  speaks  with  a  voice  of  his  own,  unbor- 
rowed, unmimicked.  You  hear  Tennyson,  indeed,  some- 
times, and  Byron  sometimes,  in  some  passages  of  the  '  Eo- 
man ; '  but  then  again  you  have  a  new  note, — ^nowhere  clearer 
than  in  a  certain  brief  lyric,  sang  in  a  meeting  of  minstrels, 
a  sort  of  dirge  over  a  dead  brother  ; — -that  not  only  charmed 
the  ear  and  brain,  it  soothed  the  heart." 

The  following  extract  will  be  read  with  interest  as 
conveying  her  thoughts  after  the  perusal  of  Dr.  Arnold's 
Life:— 

*'Nov.  Cth. 
"  I  have  just  finished  reading  the  *  Life  of  Dr.  Arnold ; 
but  now  when  I  wish,  according  to  your  request,  to  express 
what  I  think  of  it,  I  do  not  find  the  task  very  easy ;  proper 


160  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE, 

fcerms  seem  wanting.  This  is  not  a  character  to  be  dis- 
missed with  a  few  laudatory  words ;  it  is  not  a  one-sided 
character;  pure  panegyric  would  be  inappropriate.  Dr. 
Arnold  (it  seems  to  me)  was  not  quite  saintly ;  his  greatness 
was  cast  in  a  mortal  mould  ;  he  was  a  little  severe,  almost  a 
little  hard ;  he  was  vehement  and  somewhat  oppugnant. 
Himself  the  most  indefatigable  of  workers,  I  know  not 
whether  he  could  have  understood,  or  made  allowance  for, 
a  temperament  that  required  more  rest ;  yet  not  to  one  man 
in  twenty  thousand  is  given  his  giant  faculty  of  labour ;  by 
virtue  of  it  he  seems  to  me  the  greatest  of  working  men. 
Exacting  he  might  have  been,  then,  on  this  point;  and 
granting  that  he  were  so,  and  a  little  hasty,  stern,  and  posi- 
tive, those  were  his  sole  faults  (if,  indeed,  that  can  be  called 
a  fault  which  in  no  shape  degrades  the  individual's  own  char- 
acter, but  is  only  apt  to  oppress  and  overstrain  the  weaker 
nature  of  his  neighbours).  Afterwards  come  good  qualities. 
About  these  there  is  nothing  dubious.  Where  can  we  find 
justice,  firmness,  independence,  earnestness,  sincerity,  fuller 
and  purer  than  in  him  ? 

"  But  this  is  not  all,  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  Besides  high 
intellect  and  stainless  rectitude,  his  letters  and  his  life  attest 
his  possession  of  the  most  true-hearted  affection.  Without 
this,  however  one  might  admire,  we  could  not  love  him ;  but 
with  it  I  think  we  love  him  much.  A  hundred  such  men 
— ^fifty^ — ^nay,  ten  or  five  such  righteous  men  might  save  any 
country ;  might  victoriously  champion  any  cause. 

*'  I  was  struck,  too,  by  the  almost  unbroken  happiness  of 
his  life ;  a  happiness  resulting  chiefly,  no  doubt,  from  the 
right  use  to  which  he  put  that  health  and  strength  which 
God  had  given  him,  but  also  owing  partly  to  a  singular  ex- 
emption from  those  deep  and  bitter  griefs  which  most  human 
beings  are  called  on  to  endure.  His  wife  was  what  he  wished  ; 
his  children  were  healthy  and  promising;    his  own  health 


AN   EVENING   SPENT   AT   FOX   HOW.  161 

was  excellent ;  his  undertakings  were  crowned  with  sue* 
cess ;  even  death  was  kind, — for,  however  sharp  the  pains  of 
his  last  hour,  they  were  but  brief.  God's  blessing  seems  to 
have  accompanied  him  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  One 
feels  thankful  to  know  that  it  has  been  permitted  to  any  man 
to  live  such  a  life. 

"  When  I  w^s  in  Westmoreland  last  August,  I  spent  an 
evening  at  Fox  How,  where  Mrs.  Arnold  and  her  daughters 
still  reside.  It  was  twilight  as  I  drove  to  the  place,  and  al- 
most dark  ere  I  reached  it ;  still  I  could  perceive  that  the 
situation  was  lovely.  The  house  looked  like  a  nest  half  bu- 
ried in  flowers  and  creepers ;  and,  dusk  as  it  was,  I  could  feel 
that  the  valley  and  the  hills  round  were  beautiful  as  imagi- 
nation could  dream." 

If  I  say  again  what  I  have  said  already  before,  it  is  only 
to  impress  and  re-impress  upon  my  readers  the  dreary  mono- 
tony of  her  life  at  this  time.  The  dark,  bleak  season  of  the 
year  brought  back  the  long  evenings,  which  tried  her  severe- 
ly ;  all  the  more  so,  because  her  weak  eyesight  rendered  her 
incapable  of  following  any  occupation  but  knitting  by  candle- 
light. For  her  father's  sake,  as  well  as  for  her  own,  she 
found  it  necessary  to  make  some  exertion  to  ward  off  settled 
depression  of  spirits.  She  accordingly  accepted  an  invitation 
to  spend  a  week  or  ten  days  with  Miss  Martineau  at  Amble 
side.  She  also  proposed  to  come  to  Manchester  and  see  lae, 
on  her  way  to  Westmoreland.  But,  unfortunately,  I  was 
from  home,  and  unable  to  receive  her.  The  friends  with 
whom  I  was  staying  in  the  South  of  England  (hearing  me 
express  my  regret  that  I  could  not  accept  her  friendly  pro- 
posal, and  aware  of  the  sad  state  of  health  and  spirits  which 
made  some  change  necessary  for  her)  wrote  to  desire  that  she 
would  come  and  spend  a  week  or  two  at  their  house.  Sho 
acknowledged  this  invitation  in  a  letter  to  me,  dated 


162  LITE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

"Bee.  13th,  1850. 

"  Mj  dear  Mrs.   Gaskell, — Miss 's  kindness  and 

yours  is  such  that  I  am  placed  in  the  dilemma  of  not  knowing 
how  adequately  to  express  my  sense  of  it.  This  I  know, 
however,  very  well — that  if  I  could  go  and  be  with  you  for  a 
week  or  two  in  a  quiet  south-country  house,  and  with  such 
kind  people  as  you  describe,  I  should  like  it  much.  1  find  the 
proposal  marvellously  to  my  taste ;  it  is  the  pleasantest,  gen- 
tlest, sweetest,  temptation  possible ;  but,  delectable  as  it  is, 
its  solicitations  are  by  no  means  to  be  yielded  to  without  the 
sanction  of  reason,  and  therefore  I  desire  for  the  present  to 
be  silent,  and  to  stand  back  till  I  have  been  to  Miss  Marti- 
neau's,  and  returned  home,  and  considered  well  whether  it  is 
a  scheme  as  right  as  agreeable. 

^'  Meantime,  the  mere  thought  does  me  good." 

On  the  10th  of  December,  the  second  edition  of  ''  Wuth- 
ering  Heights  "  was  published.  She  sent  a  copy  of  it  to  Mr. 
Dobcll,  with  the  following  letter  : — 

TO    MR.    DOBELL. 

"  Ilaworth,  near  Keighley,  Yorkshire. 
''Dec.  8th,  1850. 

"  I  ofier  this  little  book  to  my  critic  in  the  ^  Palladium,' 
and  he  must  believe  it  accompanied  by  a  tribute  of  the  sin- 
cerest  gratitude ;  not  so  much  for  anything  he  has  said  of 
myself,  as  for  the  noble  justice  he  has  rendered  to  one  dear 
to  me  as  myself — perhaps  dearer;  and  perhaps  one  kind 
word  spoken  for  her  awakens  a  deeper,  tenderer,  sentiment 
of  thankfulness  than  eulogies  heaped  on  my  own  head.  As 
you  will  see  when  you  have  read  the  biographical  notice,  my 
sister  cannot  thank  you  herself;  she  is  gone  out  of  your 
ephere  and  mine,  and  human  blame  and  praise  are  nothing 
to  her  now.     But  to  me,  for  her  sake,  they  are  something 


nEK   LETTER   TO   MK.    DOBELL.  103 

fitill ;  it  revived  me  for  many  a  day  to  find  that,  dead  as  slie> 
was,  the  work  of  her  genius  had  at  last  met  with  worthy  ap- 
preciation. 

"  Tell  me,  when  you  have  read  the  introduction,  whether 
any  doubts  still  linger  in  your  mind  respecting  the  author- 
ship of  '  Wuthering  Heights,'  '  Wildfell  Hall,'  &c.  Your 
mistrust  did  me  some  injustice ;  it  proved  a  general  concep- 
tion of  character  such  as  I  should  be  sorry  to  call  mine  ;  but 
these  false  ideas  will  naturally  arise  when  we  only  judge  an 
author  from  his  works.  In  fairness,  I  must  also  disclaim  the 
flattering  side  of  the  portrait.  I  am  no  *  young  Penthesilea 
mediis  in  millihusj^^  but  a  plain  country  parson's  daughter 

^'  Once  more  I  thank  you,  and  that  with  a  full  heart. 

^^  a  Bronte." 


1 04  LIFE    OF    CHARLOTTE   EPvONTE. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

Immediately  after  the  republication  of  her  sister's  book  slie 
went  to  Miss  Martineau's. 

"  I  can  write  to   you  now,  dear  E ,  for  I  am  away 

from  home,  and  relieved,  temporarily,  at  least,  by  change  of 
air  and  scene,  from  the  heavy  burden  of  depression  which,  I 
confess,  has  for  nearly  three  months  been  sinking  me  to  the 
earth.  I  never  shall  forget  last  autumn  !  Some  days  and 
nights  have  been  cruel ;  but  now,  having  once  told  you  this, 
I  need  say  no  more  on  the  subject.  My  loathing  of  solitude 
grew  extreme ;  my  recollection  of  my  sisters  intolerably 
poignant.  I  am  better  now.  I  am  at  Miss  Martineau's  for 
a  week.  Her  house  is  very  pleasant,  both  within  and  with- 
out ;  arranged  at  all  points  with  admirable  neatness  and 
comfort.  Her  visitors  enjoy  the  most  perfect  liberty ;  what 
she  claims  for  herself  she  allows  them.  I  rise  at  my  own 
hour,  breakfast  alone  (she  is  up  at  five,  takes  a  cold  bath, 
and  a  walk  by  starlight,  and  has  finished  breakfa,st  and  got 
to  her  work  by  seven  o'clock).  I  pass  the  morning  in  the 
drawing-room — she,  in  her  study.  At  two  o'clock  we  meet 
— work,  talk,  and  walk  together  till  five,  her  dinner  hour, 
spend  the  evening  together,  when  she  converses  fluently  and 
abundantly,  and  with  the  most  complete  frankness.  I  go  to 
my  own  room  soon  after  ten, — she  sits  up  writing  letters  till 


HER   VISIT   TO   MISS   MARTINEAtJ.  165 

twelve.  She  appears  exhaustless  in  strength  and  spirits,  and 
indefatigable  in  the  faculty  of  labour.  She  is  a  great  and  a 
good  woman ;  of  course  not  without  peculiarities,  but  I  have 
seen  none  as  yet  that  annoy  me.  She  is  both  hard  and 
warm-hearted,  abrupt  and  affectionate,  liberal  and  despotic. 
I  believe  she  is  not  at  all  conscious  of  her  own  absolutism. 
When  I  tell  her  of  it,  she  denies  the  charge  warmly ;  then  I 
laugh  at  her.  I  believe  she  almost  rules  Ambleside.  Some 
of  the  gentry  dislike  her,  but  the  lower  orders  have  a  great 

regard  for  her I  thought  I  should  like  to  spend  two 

or  three  days  with  you  before  going  home ;  so,  if  it  is  not 
inconvenient  to  you,  I  will  (D.  V.)   come  on  Monday  and 

stay  till  Thursday I  have  truly  enjoyed  my  visit 

here.  I  have  seen  a  good  many  people,  and  all  have  been  so 
marvellously  kind  ;  not  the  least  so,  the  family  of  Dr.  Ar- 
nold.    Miss  Martineau  I  relish  inexpressibly." 

Miss  Bronte  paid  the  visit  she  here  proposes  to  her 
friend,  but  only  remained  two  or  three  days.  She  then  re- 
turned home,  and  immediately  began  to  suffer  from  her  old 
enemy,  sickly  and  depressing  headache.  This  was  all  the 
more  trying  to  bear,  as  she  was  obliged  to  take  an  active 
share  in  the  household  work, — one  servant  being  ill  in  bed, 
and  the  other.  Tabby,  aged  upwards  of  eighty. 

This  visit  to  Ambleside  did  Miss  Bronte  much  good, 
and  gave  her  a  stock  of  pleasant  recollections,  and  fresh  in- 
terests, to  dwell  upon  in  her  solitary  life.  There  are  many 
references  in  her  letters  to  Miss  Martineau's  character  and 
kindness. 

"  She  is  certainly  a  woman  of  wonderful  endowments, 
both  intellectual  and  physical ;  and  though  I  share  few  of 
her  opinions,  and  regard  her  as  fallible  on  certain  points  of 
judgment;  I  must  still  award  her  my  sincerest  esteem.     The 


166  LIFE  OF  CHAELOITE  BEONTE. 

manner  in  which  she  combines  the  highest  mental  culture 
with  the  nicest  discharge  of  feminine  duties  filled  me  with 
admiration  ;  while  her  affectionate  kindness  earned  my  grat- 
itude." "  I  think  her  good  and  noble  qualities  far  outweigh 
her  defects  It  is  my  habit  to  consider  the  individual  apart 
from  his  (or  her)  reputation,  practice  independent  of  theory, 
natural  disposition  isolated  from  acquired  opinions.  Harriet 
Martineau's  person,  practice,  and  character,  inspire  me  with 
the  truest  affection  and  respect."  "  You  ask  me  whether 
Miss  Martineau  made  me  a  convert  to  mesmerism  ?  Scarce- 
ly ;  yet  I  heard  miracles  of  its  efficacy,  and  could  hardly 
discredit  the  whole  of  what  was  told  me.  I  even  underwent 
a  personal  experiment ;  and  though  the  result  was  not  abso- 
lutely clear,  it  was  inferred  that  in  time  I  should  prove  an 
excellent  subject.  The  question  of  mesmerism  will  be  dis- 
cussed with  little  reserve,  I  believe,  in  a  forthcoming  work 
of  Miss  Martineau's ;  and  I  have  some  painful  anticipations 
of  the  manner  in  which  other  subjects,  offering  less  legiti- 
mate ground  for  speculation,  will  be  handled." 

"  Your  last  letter  evinced  such  a  sincere  and  discriminat- 
ing admiration  for  Dr.  Arnold,  that  perhaps  you  w^ll  not  be 
wholly  uninterested  in  hearing  that,  during  my  last  visit  to 
Miss  Martineau,  I  saw  much  more  of  Fox  How  and  its  in- 
mates, and  daily  admired,  in  the  widow  and  children  of  one 
of  the  greatest  and  best  men  of  his  time,  the  possession  of 
qualities  the  most  estimable  and  endearing.  Of  my  kind 
hostess  herself,  I  cannot  speak  in  terms  too  high.  Without 
being  able  to  share  all  her  opinions,  philosophical,  political, 
or  religious, — without  adopting  her  theories, — I  yet  find  a 
worth  and  greatness  in  herself,  and  a  consistency,  benevo- 
lence, perseverance  in  her  practice,  such  as  wins  the  sincerest 
esteem  and  affection  She  is  not  a  person  to  be  judged  by 
her  writings  alone,  but  rather  by  her  own  deeds  and  life, 
than  which  nothing  can  be  more  exemplary  or  nobler.     Shr 


HER   IMPliESSIONS   OF   MISS   MARTINEATJ.  .  IC? 

Bceins  to  me  the  benefactress  of  Ambleside,  yet  takes  no  sort 
of  credit  to  herself  for  her  active  and  indefatigable  philan- 
thropy. The  government  of  her  household  is  admirably  ad- 
ministered ;  all  she  does  is  well  done,  from  the  writing  of  a 
history  down  to  the  quietest  female  occupation.  No  sort  of 
carelessness  or  neglect  is  allowed  under  her  rule,  and  yet  she 
is  not  over-strict,  nor  too  rigidly  exacting  :  her  servants  and 
her  poor  neighbours  love  as  well  as  respect  her. 

"  I  must  not,  however,  fall  into  the  error  of  talking  too 
much  about  her  merely  because  my  own  mind  is  just  now 
deeply  impressed  with  what  I  have  seen  of  her  intellectual 
power  and  moral  worth.  Faults  she  has ;  but  to  me  they 
appear  very  trivial  weighed  in  the  balance  against  her  excel- 
lences." 

"  Your  account  of  Mr.  A tallies  exactly  with  Miss 

M 's.     She,  too,  said  that  placidity  and  mildness  (rather 

than  originality  and  power)  were  his  external  characteristics. 
She  described  him  as  a  combination  of  the  antique  Greek 
sage  with  the  European  modern  man  of  science.  Perhaps  it 
was  mere  perversity  in  me  to  get  the  notion  that  torpid  veins, 
and  a  cold,  slow-beating  heart,  lay  under  his  marble  outside. 
But  he  is  a  materialist :  he  serenely  denies  us  #ur  hope  of 
immortality,  and  quietly  blots  from  man's  future  Heaven 
and  the  Life  to  come.  That  is  why  a  savour  of  bitterness 
seasoned  my  feeling  towards  him. 

"  All  you  say  of  Mr.  Thackeray  is  most  graphic  and 
characteristic.  He  stirs  in  me  both  sorrow  and  anger. 
Why  should  he  lead  so  harassing  a  life  ?  Why  should  hia 
mocking  tongue  so  perversely  deny  the  better  feelings  of  his 
better  moods  ? '' 

For  some  time,  whenever  she  was  well  enough  in  health 
and  spirits,  she  had  been  employing  herself  upon  "  Villette ;  " 
but  she  was  frequently  unable  to  write  and  was  both  grieved 


168  LIFE    OF   CIIAELOTTE   BRONTE. 

and  angry  with  herself  for  her  inability.     In  February,  she 
writes  as  follows  to  Mr.  Smith  : — 

"  Something  you  say  about  going  to  London ;  but  the 
words  are  dreamy,  and  fortunately  I  am  not  obliged  to  hear 
or  answer  them.  London  and  summer  are  many  months 
away :  our  moors  are  all  white  with  snow  just  now,  and  lit- 
tle redbreasts  come  every  morning  to  the  window  for  crumbs. 
One  can  lay  no  plans  three  or  four  months  beforehand.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  deserve  to  go  to  London ;  nobody  merits  a 
change  or  a  treat  less.  I  secretly  think,  on  the  contrary,  I 
ought  to  be  put  in  prison,  and  kept  on  bread  and  water  in 
solitary  confinement — without  even  a  letter  from  Cornhill — 
till  I  had  written  a  book.  One  of  two  things  would  certainly 
result  from  such  a  mode  of  treatment  pursued  for  twelve 
months  ;  either  I  should  come  out  at  the  end  of  that  time 
with  a  three- volume  MS.  in  my  hand,  or  else  with  a  condi- 
tion of  intellect  that  would  exempt  me  ever  after  from  lite- 
rary efforts  and  expectations." 

Meanwhile,  she  was  disturbed  and  distressed  by  the  pub- 
lication of  Miss  Martineau's  "  Letters,"  &c. ;  they  came 
down  with  a  peculiar  force  and  heaviness  upon  a  heart  that 
looked,  with  fond  and  earnest  faith,  to  a  future  life  as  to  the 
meeting-place  with  those  who  were  "  loved  and  lost  awhile." 

"Feb.  11,  1851. 

^^  My  dear  Sir, — Have  you  yet  read  Miss  Martineau's  and 
Mr.  Atkinson's  new  work,  ^  Letters  on  the  Nature  and 
Development  of  Man  ?  '  If  you  have  not,  it  would  be  worth 
your  while  to  do  so. 

"  Of  the  impression  this  book  has  made  on  me,  I  will  not 
now  say  much.  It  is  the  first  exposition  of  avowed  atheism 
aiid  materialism  I  have  ever  read  ;  the  first  unequivocal  dec- 


MISS   MAETINEAU'S    "  LETTERS."  169 

laratlon  of  dislbelief  in  tlie  existence  of  a  God  or  a  future  life 
I  have  ever  seen.  In  judging  of  sucli  exposition  and  decla- 
ration, one  would  wish  entirely  to  put  aside  the  sort  of 
instinctive  horror  they  awaken,  and  to  consider  them  in 
an  impartial  spirit  and  collected  mood.  This  I  find  it 
difficult  to  do.  The  strangest  thing  is,  that  we  are  called  on 
to  rejoice  over  this  hopeless  blank — to  receive  this  bitter 
bereavement  as  great  gain — to  welcome  this  unutterable  des- 
olation as  a  state  of  pleasant  freedom.  Who  could  do  this 
if  he  would  ?     Who  would  do  it  if  he  could  ? 

*'  Sincerely,  for  my  own  part,  do  I  wish  to  find  and  know 
the  Truth ;  but  if  this  be  Truth,  well  may  she  guard  herself 
with  mysteries,  and  cover  herself  with  a  veil.  If  this  be 
Truth,  man  or  woman  who  beholds  her  can  but  curse  the 
day  he  or  she  was  born.  I  said,  however,  I  would  not  dwell 
on  what  /thought;  I  wish  to  hear,  rather,  what  some  other 
person  thinks, — some  one  whose  feelings  are  unapt  to  bias 
his  judgment.  Read  the  book,  then,  in  an  unprejudiced 
spirit,  and  candidly  say  what  you  think  of  it.  I  mean,  of 
course,  if  you  have  time — not  otherwise,'''' 

And  yet  she  could  not  bear  the  contemptuous  tone  in 
which  this  work  was  spoken  of  by  many  critics ;  it  made  her 
more  indignant  than  almost  any  other  circumstance  during 
my  acquaintance  with  her.  Much  as  she  regretted  the  pub- 
lication of  the  book,  she  could  not  see  that  it  had  given  any 
one  a  right  to  sneer  at  an  action,  certainly  prompted  by  no 
worldly  motive,  and  which  was  but  one  error — the  gravity 
of  which  she  admitted — in  the  conduct  of  a  person  who  had, 
all  her  life  long,  been  striving,  })j  deep  thought  and  noble 
words,  to  serve  her  kind. 

"  Your  remarks  on  Miss  Martineau  and  her  book  pleased 
mo  greatly,  from  their  tone  and  spirit.     I  have  even  taken 

VOL.    IT.— 8 


170  LIFE   OF   CIIAELOTTE   BrvONTE. 

the  liberty  of  transcribing  for  her  benefit  one  or  two  phrascSj 
because  I  know  they  will  cheer  her ;  she  likes  sympathy  and 
appreciation  (as  all  people  do  who  deserve  them) ;  and  most 
fully  do  I  agree  with  you  in  the  dislike  you  express  of  that 
hard,  contemptuous  tone  in  which  her  work  is  spoken  of  by 
many  critics." 

Before  I  return  from  the  literary  opinions  of  the  author 
to  the  domestic  interests  of  the  woman,  I  must  copy  out 
what  she  felt  and  thought  about  ^'  The  Stones  of  Venice." 

"  ^  The  Stones  of  Venice'  seem  nobly  laid  and  chiselled. 
How  grandly  the  quarry  of  vast  marbles  is  disclosed !  Mr. 
lluskin  seems  to  me  one  of  the  few  genuine  writers,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  book-makers,  of  this  age.  His  earnestness 
even  amuses  me  in  certain  passages;  for  I  cannot  help 
laughing  to  think  how  utilitarians  will  fume  and  fret  over  his 
deep,  serious  (and  as  they  will  think),  fanatical  reverence  for 
Art.  That  pure  and  severe  mind  you  ascribed  to  him 
speaks  in  every  line.  He  writes  like  a  consecrated  priest  of 
the  Abstract  and  Ideal. 

^'  I  shall  bring  with  me  ^  The  Stones  of  Venice  ; '  all  the 
foundations  of  marble  and  of  granite,  together  with  the 
mighty  quarry  out  of  which  they  were  hewn ;  and,  into  the 
bargain,  a  small  assortment  of  crotchets  and  dicta  —  the 
private  property  of  one  John  Kuskin,  Esq." 

As  spring  drew  on,  the  depression  of  spirits  to  which  she 
was  subject  began  to  grasp  her  again,  and  *^to  crush  her  with 
a  day-  and  night-mare."  She  became  afraid  of  sinking  as  low 
as  she  had  done  in  the  autumn ;  and  to  avoid  this,  she  pre- 
vailed on  her  old  friend  and  schoolfellow  to  come  and  stay 
with  her  for  a  few  weeks  in  March.  She  found  great  benefit 
from  this  companionship,— both  from  the  congenial  society 


A   THIRD    OFFER   OF   MARRIAGE.  171 

in  itself,  and  from  the  self-restraint  of  thought  imposed  by 
the  necessity  of  entertaining  her  and  looking  after  her  com- 
fort. On  this  occasion,  Miss  Bronte  said,  "  It  will  not  do  tc 
get  into  the  habit  of  running  away  from  home,  and  thus 
temporarily  evading  an  oppression  instead  of  facing,  wrest- 
ling with  and  conquering  it,  or  being  conquered  by  it.'^ 

I  shall  now  make  an  extract  from  one  of  her  letters, 
which  is  purposely  displaced  as  to  time.  I  quote  it  because  it 
relates  to  a  third  offer  of  marriage  which  she  had,  and 
because  I  find  that  some  are  apt  to  imagine,  from  the  ex- 
traordinary power  with  which  she  represented  the  passion  of 
love  in  her  novels,  that  she  herself  was  easily  susceptible  of  it. 

"  Could  I  ever  feel  enough  for ,  to  accept  of  him  as  a 

husband  ?  Friendship — gratitude — esteem — I  have  ;  but 
each  moment  he  came  near  me,  and  that  I  could  see  his  eyes 
fastened  on  me,  my  veins  ran  ice.  Now  that  he  is  away,  I 
feel  far  more  gently  towards  him ;  it  is  only  close  by  that  I 
grow  rigid,  stiffening  with  a  strange  mixture  of  apprehension 
and  anger,  which  nothing  softens  but  his  retreat,  and  a  per- 
fect subduing  of  his  manner.  I  did  not  want  to  be  proud, 
nor  intend  to  be  proud,  but  I  was  forced  to  be  so.  Most 
true  it  is,  that  we  are  over-ruled  by  One  above  us ;  that  in 
His  hands  our  very  will  is  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  pot- 
ter." 

4. 

I  have  now  named  all  the  offers  of  marriage  she  ever  re- 
ceived, until  that  was  made  which  she  finally  accepted.  The 
gentleman  referred  to  in  this  letter,  retained  so  much  regard 
for  her  as  to  be  her  friend  to  the  end  of  her  life ;  a  circum- 
stance to  his  credit  and  to  hers. 

Before  her  friend  E took  her  departure,  Mr.  Bronte 

cauglit  cold,  and  continued  for  some  weeks  much  out  of  health, 


172  LIFE  OF  CHAKLOTTE  BRONTE. 

with  an  attack  of  bronchitis.  His  spirits  too,  became  much 
depressed ;  and  all  his  daughter's  efforts  were  directed  towards 
cheering  him. 

When  he  grew  better,  and  had  regained  his  previous 
strength,  she  resolved  to  avail  herself  of  an  invitation  which 
she  had  received  some  time  before,  to  pay  a  visit  in  London* 
This  year,  1851,  was,  as  every  one  remembers,  the  time  of 
the  great  Exhibition ;  but  even  with  that  attraction  in  pros- 
pect, she  did  not  intend  to  stay  there  long ;  and  as  usual,  she 
made  an  agreement  with  her  friends,  before  finally  accepting 
their  offered  hospitality,  that  her  sojourn  at  their  house  was 
to  be  as  quiet  as  ever,  since  any  other  way  of  proceeding  dis- 
agreed with  her  both  mentally  and  physically.  She  never 
looked  excited  except  for  a  moment,  when  something  in  con- 
versation called  her  out ;  but  she  often  felt  so,  even  about 
comparative  trifles,  and  the  exhaustion  of  reaction  was  sure 
to  follow.  Under  such  circumstances,  she  always  became 
extremely  thin  and  haggard ;  yet  she  averred  that  the  change 
invariably  did  her  good  afterwards. 

Her  preparations  in  the  way  of  dress  for  this  visit,  in  the 
gay  time  of  that  gay  season,  were  singularly  in  accordance 
with  her  feminine  taste ;  quietly  anxious  to  satisfy  her  love 
for  modest,  dainty,  neat  attire,  and  not  regardless  of  the  be- 
coming, yet  remembering  consistency,  both  with  her  general 
appearance  and  with  her  means,  in  every  selection  she  made. 

"  By  the  bye,  I  meant  to  ask  you  when  you  went  to  Leeds, 
to  do  a  small  errand  for  me,  but  fear  your  hands  will  be  too 
full  of  business.  It  was  msrely  this  :  in  case  you  chanced  to 
be  in  any  shop  where  the  lace  cloaks,  both  black  and  white, 
of  which  I  spoke,  were  sold,  to  ask  their  price.  I  suppose 
they  would  hardly  like  to  send  a  few  to  Haworth  to  be  looked 
at ;  indeed,  if  they  cost  very  much,  it  would  be  useless,  but 
if  they  are  reasonable  and  they  would  send  them,  I  should 


PREPARINa   FOR    A   VISIT   TO   LONDOTT.  173 

like  to  see  them ;  and  also  some  chemisettes  of  small  size, 
(the  full  woman's  size  don't  fit  me)  both  of  simple  style  for 
every  day  and  good  quality  for  best."  .  ..."  It  appears 
I  could  not  rest  satisfied  when  I  was  well  oflF,  I  told  you 
I  had  taken  one  of  the  black  lace  mantles,  but  when  I  came 
to  try  it  with  the  black  satin  dress,  with  which  I  should 
chiefly  want  to  wear  it,  I  found  the  efiect  was  far  from  good ; 
the  beauty  of  the  lace  was  lost,  and  it  looked  somewhat  brown 

and  rusty ;  I  wrote  to  Mr. ,  requesting  him  to  change  it 

for  a  white  mantle  of  the  same  price  ;  he  was  extremely  cour- 
teous, and  sent  to  London  for  one,  which  I  have  got  this 
morning.  The  price  is  less,  being  but  11,  14s.  Oc?. ;  it  is 
pretty,  neat  and  light,  looks  well  on  black  ;  and  upon  reason- 
ing the  matter  over,  I  came  to  the  philosophic  conclusion,  that 
it  would  be  no  shame  for  a  person  of  my  means  to  wear  a 
cheaper  thing ;  so  I  think  I  shall  take  it,  and  if  you  ever  see 
it  and  call  it  *  trumpery '  so  much  the  worse." 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  was  in  Leeds  on  the  very  same  day 
with  you — last  Wednesday  ?  I  had  thought  of  telling  you 
where  I  was  going,  and  having  your  help  and  company  in 
buying  a  bonnet,  &c.,  but  then  I  reflected  this  would  merely 
be  making  a  selfish  use  of  you,  so  I  determined  to  manage  or 
mismanage  the  matter  alone.  I  went  to  Hurst  and  Hall's 
for  the  bonnet,  and  got  one  which  seemed  grave  and  quiet 
there  amongst  all  the  splendours  ;  but  now  it  looks  infinitely 
too  gay  with  its  pink  lining.  I  saw  some  beautiful  silks  of 
pale  sweet  colours,  but  had  not  the  spirit  nor  the  means  to 
launch  out  at  the  rate  of  five  shillings  per  yard,  and  went  and 
bought  a  black  silk  at  three  shillings  after  all.  I  rather  re- 
gret this,  because  papa  says  he  would  have  lent  me  a  sove- 
reign if  he  had  known.  I  believe,  if  you  had  been  there,  you 
would  have  forced  me  to  get  into  debt.  ...  I  really  can  no 
more  come  to  B — —  before  I  go  to  London  than  I  can  fly. 
I  have  quantities  of  sewing  to  do,  as  well  as  household  mat- 


174  LIFE   OF   CIIAELOTTE   BRONTE. 

ters  to  arrange,  before  I  leave,  as  they  will  clean,  &c.  in  nij 
absence.  Besides,  I  am  grievously  afflicted  with  headache 
which  I  trust  to  change  of  air  for  relieving ;  but  meantime, 
as  it  proceeds  from  the  stomach,  it  makes  me  very  thin  and 
grey ;  neither  you  nor  anybody  else  would  fatten  me  up  or 
put  me  in  good  condition  for  the  visit ;  it  is  fated  otherwise. 
No  matter.  Calm  your  passion ;  yet  I  am  glad  to  see  it. 
Such  spirit  seems  to  prove  health.     Good  bye,  in  haste. 

"  Your  poor  mother  is  like  Tabby,  Martha  and  Papa ;  all 
these  fancy  I  am  somehow,  by  some  mysteiious  process^  to  be 
married  in  London,  or  to  engage  myself  to  matrimony.  How 
I  smile  internally  !  How  groundless  and  improbable  is  the 
idea !  Papa  seriously  told  me  yesterday,  that  if  I  married 
and  left  him  he  should  give  up  housekeeping  and  go  into 
lodgings !  " 

I  copy  the  following,  for  the  sake  of  the  few  words  de- 
scribing the  appearance  of  the  heathery  moors  in  late  sum- 
mer. 

TO    SYDNEY    DOBELL,    ESQ. 

"May  24tli,  1851. 

"  My  dear  Sir, — I  hasten  to  send  Mrs.  Dobell  the 
autograph.  It  was  the  word  *  Album  '  that  frightened  me  . 
I  thought  she  wished  me  to  write  a  sonnet  on  purpose  for  it, 
which  I  could  not  do. 

"  Your  proposal  respecting  a  journey  to  Switzerland  is 
deeply  kind ;  it  draws  me  with  the  force  of  a  mighty  Temp- 
tation, but  the  stern  Impossible  holds  me  back.  No  1  I  can- 
not go  to  Switzerland  this  summer. 

"  Why  did  the  editor  of  the  ^  Eclectic '  erase  that 
most  powerful  and  pictorial  passage  ?  He  could  not  be 
insensible  to  its  beauty  ;  perhaps  he  thought  it  profane. 
Poor  man ! 


MK.  Thackeray's  lecture,  etc.  175 

"  I  know  notliing  of  such  an  orchard-countrj  as  you  do- 
scribe.  I  have  never  seen  such  a  region.  Our  hills  only 
confess  the  coming  of  summer  by  growing  green  with  young 
fern  and  moss,  in  secret  little  hollows.  Their  bloom  is  re- 
served for  autumn ;  then  they  burn  with  a  kind  of  dark  glow, 
different,  doubtless,  from  the  blush  of  garden  blossoms. 
About  the  close  of  next  month,  I  expect  to  go  to  London,  to 
pay  a  brief  and  quiet  visit.  I  fear  chance  will  not  be  so 
propitious  as  to  bring  you  to  town  while  I  am  there  ;  other- 
wise, how  glad  I  should  be  if  you  would  call.  With  kind 
regards  to  Mrs.  Dobell, — Believe  me,  sincerely  yours, 

"  C.  Bronte." 

Her  next  letter  is  dated  from  London. 

"  June  2nd. 

"  I  came  here  on  Wednesday,  being  summoned  a  day 
sooner  than  I  expected,  in  order  to  be  in  time  for  Thacke- 
ray's second  lecture,  which  was  delivered  on  Thursday  after- 
noon. This,  as  you  may  suppose,  was  a  genuine  treat  to  me, 
and  I  was  glad  not  to  miss  it.  It  was  given  in  Willis  ' 
Rooms,  where  the  Almacks  balls  are  held — a  great  painted 
and  gilded  saloon  with  long  sofas  for  benches.  The  audience 
was  said  to  be  the  cream  of  London  society,  and  it  looked 
so.  I  did  not  at  all  expect  the  great  lecturer  would  know 
mo  or  notice  me  under  these  circumstances,  with  admiring 
duchesses  and  countesses  seated  in  rows  before  him ;  but  he 
met  me  as  I  entered — shook  hands — took  me  to  his  mother, 
whom  I  had  not  before  seen,  and  introduced  me.  She  is  a 
fine,  handsome,  young-looking  old  lady ;  was  very  gracious, 
and  called  with  one  of  her  grand-daughters  next  day. 

Thackeray  called  too,  separately.  I  had  a  long  talk 
with  him,  and  I  think  he  knows  me  now  a  little  better  than 
he  did ;  but  of  this  I  cannot  yet  be  sure ;  he  is  a  great  and 
strange  man.     There  is  quite  a  furor  for  his  lectures.    They 


176  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BEONTE. 

are  a  sort  of  essays,  characterised  by  his  own  peculiai 
originality  and  power,  and  delivered  with  a  finished  taste 
and  ease,  which  is  felt,  but  cannot  be  described.  Just  Jbe- 
fore  the  lecture  began,  somebody  came  behind  me,  leaned 
over  and  said,  '  Permit  me,  as  a  Yorkshireman,  to  introduce 
myself.'  I  turned  round — saw  a  strange,  not  handsome, 
face,  which  puzzled  me  for  half  a  minute,  and  then  I  said, 
'  You  are  Lord  Carlisle.'  He  nodded  and  smiled  ;  he  talked 
a  few  minutes  very  pleasantly  and  courteously. 

"  Afterwards  came  another  man  with  the  same  plea,  that 
he  was  a  Yorkshireman,  and  this  turned  out  to  be  Mr. 
Monckton  Milnes.  Then  came  Dr.  Forbes,  whom  I  was 
sincerely  glad  to  see.  On  Friday,  I  went  to  the  Crystal 
Palace ;  it  is  a  marvellous,  stirring,  bewildering  sight — a 
mixture  of  a  genii  palace,  and  a  mighty  bazaar,  but  it  is  not 
much  in  my  way ;  I  like  the  lecture  better.  On  Saturday  I 
saw  the  Exhibition  at  Somerset  House ;  about  half  a  dozen 
of  the  pictures  are  good  and  interesting,  the  rest  of  little 
worth.  Sunday — yesterday — was  a  day  to  be  marked  with 
a  white  stone ;  through  most  of  the  day  I  was  very  happy, 
without  being  tired  or  over-excited.  In  the  afternoon,  I 
went  to  hear  D'Aubigne,  the  great  Protestant  French 
preacher ;  it  was  pleasant  —  half  sweet,  half  sad —  and 
strangely  suggestive  to  hear  the  French  language  once  more. 
For  health,  I  have  so  far  got  on  very  fairly,  considering  that 
I  came  here  far  from  well." 

The  lady,  who  accompanied  Miss  Bronte  to  the  lecturt 
at  Thackeray's  alluded  to,  says  that,  soon  after  they  had 
taken  their  places,  she  was  aware  that  he  was  pointing  out  her 
companion  to  several  of  his  friends,  but  she  hoped  that  Misa 
Eront6  herself  would  not  perceive  it.  After  some  time, 
however,  during  which  many  heads  had  been  turned  round, 
and  many  glasses  put  up,  in  order  to  look  at  the  author  cl 


PUBLIC   CURIOSriY   KESPECTING   MISS   BRONTE.       177 

"  Jane  Ejre,'*  Miss  Bronte  said,  "  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Thacke- 
ray has  been  playing  me  a  trick ;  "  but  she  soon  became  too 
much  absorbed  in  the  lecture  to  notice  the  attention  which 
was  being  paid  to  her,  except  when  it  was  directly  offered 
as  in  the  case  of  Lord  Carlisle  and  Mr.  Monckton  Milnes. 
When  the  lecture  was  ended,  Mr.  Thackeray  came  down 
from  the  platform,  and  making  his  way  towards  her,  asked 
her  for  her  opinion.  This  she  mentioned  to  me  not  many 
days  afterwards,  adding  remarks  almost  identical  with  those 
which  I  subsequently  read  in  "  Villette,"  where  a  similar 
action  on  the  part  of  M.  Paul  Emanuel  is  related. 

"  As  our  party  left  the  Hall,  he  stood  at  the  entrance ; 
he  saw  and  knew  me,  and  lifted  his  hat ;  he  offered  his  hand 
in  passing,  and  uttered  the  words  ''  Qu'en  ditesvous  ?  ' — 
question  eminently  characteristic,  and  reminding  me,  even  in 
this  his  moment  of  triumph,  of  that  inquisitive  restlessness, 
that  absence  of  what  I  considered  desirable  self-control,  which 
were  amongst  his  faults.  He  should  not  have  cared  just 
then  to  ask  what  I  thought,  or  what  anybody  thought ;  but 
he  did  care,  and  he  was  too  natural  to  conceal,  too  impulsive 
to  repress  his  wish.  Well !  if  I  blamed  his  over-eagerness,  I 
liked  his  naivete,  I  would  have  praised  him;  I  had  plenty 
of  praise  in  my  heart ;  but  alas  !  no  words  on  my  lips. 
Who  has  words  at  the  right  moment  ?  I  stammered  some 
lame  expressions;  but  was  truly  glad  when  other  people, 
coming  up  with  profuse  congratulations,  covered  my  defi- 
ciency by  their  redundancy." 

As  they  were  preparing  to  leave  the  room,  her  companion 
saw  with  dismay  that  many  of  the  audience  were  forming 
themselves  into  two  lines,  on  each  side  of  the  aisle  down  which 
they  had  to  pass  before  reaching  the  door.  Aware  that  any 
delay  would  only  make  the  ordeal  more  trying,  her  friend 
took  Miss  Bronte's  arm  in  hers,  and  they  went  along  the 
VOL.  IT. — 8* 


178  LIFE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BROISITE. 

avenue  of  eager  and  admiring  faces.  During  this  passage 
through  the  "  cream  of  society,''  Miss  Bronte's  hand  trembled 
to  such  a  degree,  that  her  companion  feared  lest  she  should 
turn  faint  and  be  unable  to  proceed ;  and  she  dared  not  ex 
press  her  sympathy  or  try  to  give  her  strength  by  any  touch 
or  word,  lest  it  might  bring  on  the  crisis  she  dreaded. 

Surely,  such  thoughtless  manifestation  of  curiosity  is  a 
blot  on  the  scutcheon  of  true  politeness  !  The  rest  of  the  ac- 
count of  this,  her  longest  visit  to  London,  shall  be  told  in  her 
own  words. 

"  I  sit  down  to  write  to  you  this  morning  in  an  inexpres- 
sibly flat  state  ;  having  spent  the  whole  of  yesterday  and  the 
day  before  in  a  gradually  increasing  headache,  which  grew  at 
last  rampant  and  violent,  ended  with  excessive  sickness,  and 
this  morning  I  am  quite  weak  and  washy.  I  hoped  to  leave 
my  headaches  behind  me  at  Haworth ;  but  it  seems  I  brought 
them  carefully  packed  in  my  trunk,  and  very  much  have  they 
been  in  my  way  since  I  came.  ....  Since  I  wrote  last,  I 
have  seen  various  things  worth  describing ;  Eachel,  the  great 
French  actress,  amongst  the  number.  But  to-day  I  really 
have  no  pith  for  the  task.  I  can  only  wish  you  good  bye 
with  all  my  heart." 

"  I  cannot  boast  that  London  has  agreed  with  me  well 
this  time  ;  the  oppression  of  frequent  headache,  sickness,  and 
a  low  tone  of  spirits,  has  poisoned  many  moments  which 
might  otherwise  have  been  pleasant.  Sometimes  I  have  felt 
this  hard,  and  been  tempted  to  murmur  at  Fate,  which  com- 
pels me  to  comparative  silence  and  solitude  for  eleven  months 
in  the  year,  and  in  the  twelfth,  while  offering  social  enjoy- 
ment, takes  away  the  vigour  and  cheerfulness  which  should 
turK  it  to  account.  But  circumstances  are  ordered  for  us, 
and  we  must  submit." 

"  Your  letter  would  have  been  answered  yesterday,  but  I 


VISIT   TO   THE   GREAT   EXHIBITION.  179 

WAS  already  gone  out  before  post  time,  and  was  out  all  day. 
People  are  very  kind,  and  perhaps  I  shall  be  glad  of  what  I 
have  seen  afterwards,  but  it  is  often  a  little  trying  at  the 
time.     On  Thursday,  the  Marquis  of  Westminster  asked  me 

to  a  great  party,  to  which  I  was  to  go  with  Mrs.  J) ,  a 

beautiful,  and,  I  think,  a  kind  woman  too ;  but  this  I  reso- 
lutely declined.     On  Friday  I  dined  at  the 's,  and  met 

Mrs.  D and  Mr.  Monckton  Milnes.    On  Saturday  I  went 

to  hear  and  see  Rachel ;  a  wonderful  sight- — terrible  as  if  the 
earth  had  cracked  deep  at  your  feet,  and  revealed  a  glimpse 
of  hell.  I  shall  never  forget  it.  She  made  me  shudder  to 
the  marrow  of  my  bones ;  in  her  some  fiend  has  certainly 
taken  up  an  incarnate  home.     She  is  not  a  woman ;  she  is  a 

snake  ;  she  is  the .     On  Sunday  I  went  to  the  Spanish 

Ambassador's  Chapel,  where  Cardinal  Wiseman,  in  his  archi- 
episcopal  robes  and' mitre,  held  a  confirmation.  The  whole 
scene  was  impiously  theatrical.  Yesterday  (Monday)  I  was 
sent  for  at  ten  to  breakfast  with  Mr.  Rogers,  the  patriarch- 
poet.     Mrs.  D and  Lord  Glenelg  were  there ;   no  one 

else :  this  certainly  proved  a  most  calm,  refined,  and  intellec- 
tual treat.  After  breakfast,  Sir  David  Brewster  came  to 
take  us  to  the  Crystal  Palace.  I  had  rather  dreaded  this, 
for  Sir  David  is  a  man  of  profoundest  science,  and  I  feared 
it  would  be  impossible  to  understand  his  explanations  of  the 
mechanism,  &c. ;  indeed,  I  hardly  knew  how  to  ask  him 
questions.  I  was  spared  all  trouble  :  without  being  ques- 
tioned, he  gave  information  in  the  kindest  and  simplest  man- 
ner. After  two  hours  spent  at  the  Exhibition,  and  where.,  aa 
you  may  suppose,  I  was  very  tired,  we  had  to  go  to  Lord 
Westminster's  and  spend  two  hours  more  in  looking  at  the 
collection  of  pictures  in  his  splendid  gallery." 

To  another  friend  she  writes  : — 

*^ may  have  told  you  that  I  have  q)ent  a  month  in 


180  LIFE  OF  CnAELOTTE  BRONTEc 

London  this  summer.  When  you  come,  you  shall  ask  what 
questions  you  like  on  that  point,  and  I  will  answer  to  the  best 
of  my  stammering  ability.  Do  not  press  me  much  on  the 
subject  of  the  '  Crystal  Palace.'  I  went  there  five  times,  and 
certainly  saw  some  interesting  things,  and  the  *  coup  d'oeil  ^ 
is  striking  and  bewilderiog  enough ;  but  I  never  was  able  to 
get  up  any  raptures  on  the  subject,  and  each  renewed  visit 
was  made  under  coercion  rather  than  my  own  free  will.  It 
is  an  excessively  bustling  place ;  and,  after  all,  its  wonders 
appeal  too  exclusively  to  the  eye,  and  rarely  touch  the  heart 
or  head.  I  make  an  exception  to  the  last  assertion,  in  favour 
of  those  who  possess  a  large  range  of  scientific  knowledge. 
Once  I  went  with  Sir  David  Brewster,  and  perceived  that  he 
looked  on  objects  with  other  eyes  than  mine." 

Miss  Bronte  returned  from  London  by  Manchester,  and 
paid  us  a  visit  of  a  couple  of  days  at  the  end  of  June.  The 
weather  was  so  intensely  hot,  and  she  herself  so  much  fatigued 
w  ith  her  London  sight-seeing,  that  we  did  little  but  sit  in- 
doors, with  open  windows  and  talk.  The  only  thing  she  made 
a  point  of  exerting  herself  to  procure  was  a  present  for  Tabby. 
It  was  to  be  a  shawl,  or  rather  a  large  handkerchief,  such  as 
she  could  pin  across  her  neck  and  shoulders,  in  the  old-fash- 
ioned country  manner.  Miss  Bronte  took  great  pains  in 
seeking  out  one  which  she  thought  would  please  the  old  wo- 
man. 

On  her  arrival  at  home,  she  addressed  the  following  letter 
to  the  friend  with  whom  she  had  been  staying  in  London  : — 

*'  Eaworth,  July  1st,  1851. 
"  My  dear  Mrs.  Smith, — Once  more  I  am  at  home,  where, 
I  am  thankful  to  say,  I  found  my  father  very  well.     The 
journey  to  Manchester  was  a  little  hot  and  dusty,  but  other- 
wise pleasant  enough.     The  two  stout  gentlemen,  who  filled 


ME.    TIIACKEEAy's   LAST   LECTURE.  181 

a  portion  of  the  carriage  when  I  got  in,  quitted  it  at  Rugby, 
and  two  other  ladies  and  myself  had  it  to  ourselves  the  rest 
of  the  way.  The  visit  to  Mrs.  Gaskell  formed  a  cheering 
break  in  the  journey.  Haworth  Parsonage  is  rather  a  con- 
trast, yet  even  Haworth  Parsonage  does  not  look  gloomy  in 
this  bright  summer  weather ;  it  is  somewhat  still,  but  with 
he  windows  open  I  can  hear  a  bird  or  two  singing  on  certain 
horn-trees  in  the  garden.  My  father  and  the  servants  think 
me  looking  better  than  when  I  left  home,  and  I  certainly  feci 
better  myself  for  the  change.  You  are  too  much  like  your 
son  to  render  it  advisable  I  should  say  much  about  your  kind- 
ness during  my  visit.  However,  one  cannot  help  (like  Cap- 
tain Cuttle)  making  a  note  of  these  matters.  Papa  says  I  am 
to  thank  you  in  his  name,  and  offer  you  his  respects,  which  I 
do  accordingly. — With  truest  regard  to  all  your  circle,  believe 
me  very  sincerely  yours, 

"  0.  BRONTii:." 

*'  July  8tli,  1851. 
"  My  dear  Sir, — Thackeray's  last  lecture  must,  I  think, 
have  been  his  best.  What  he  says  about  Sterne  is  true. 
His  observations  on  literary  men,  and  their  social  obliga- 
tions and  individual  duties,  seem  to  me  also  true  and  full  of 
mental  and  moral  vigour The  International  Copy- 
right Meeting  seems  to  have  had  but  a  barren  result,  judg- 
ing from  the  report  in  the  Literary  Gazette.  I  cannot  seo 
that  Sir  E.  Bulwer  and  the  rest  did  anything ;  nor  can  I  well 
see  what  it  is  in  their  power  to  do.  The  argument  brought 
forward  about  the  damage  accruing  to  American  national 
literature  from  the  present  piratical  system,  is  a  good  and 
sound  argument,  but  I  am  afraid  the  publishers— honest 
men — are  not  yet  mentally  prepared  to  give  such  reasoning 
due  weight.  I  should  think,  that  which  refers  to  the  injury 
inflicted  upon  themselves,  by  an  oppressive  competitioi>  in 


182  LIFE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BKONT^. 

piracy,  would  influence  tliem  more ;  but,  I  suppose,  all  es 
tablished  matters,  be  they  good  or  evil,  are  difficult  to 
change.  About  the  ^  Phrenological  Character '  I  must  not 
say  a  word.  Of  your  own  accord,  you  have  found  the  safest 
point  from  which  to  view  it :  I  will  not  say  ^  look  higher  ! ' 
I  think  you  see  the  matter  as  it  is  desirable  we  should  all 
gee  what  relates  to  ourselves.  If  I  had  a  right  to  whisper  a 
word  of  counsel,  it  should  be  merely  this :  whatever  your 
present  self  may  be,  resolve  with  all  your  strength  of  reso- 
lution, never  to  degenerate  thence.  Be  jealous  of  a  shadow 
of  falling  off.  Determine  rather  to  look  above  that  stand- 
ard, and  to  strive  beyond  it.  Every  body  appreciates  cer- 
tain social  properties,  and  likes  his  neighbour  for  possessing 
them ;  but  perhaps  few  dwell  upon  a  friend's  capacity  for  the 
intellectual,  or  care  how  this  might  expand,  if  there  were 
but  facilities  allowed  for  cultivation,  and  space  given  for 
growth.  It  seems  to  me  that,  even  should  such  space  and 
facilities  be  denied  by  stringent  circumstances  and  a  rigid 
fate,  still  it  should  do  you  good  fully  to  know,  and  tena- 
ciously to  remember,  that  you  have  such  a  capacity.  When 
other  people  overwhelm  you  with  acquired  knowledge,  such 
as  you  have  not  had  opportunity,  perhaps  not  application,  to 
gain — derive  not  pride,  but  support  from  the  thought.  If 
no  new  books  had  ever  been  written,  some  of  these  minds 
would  themselves  have  remained  blank  pages  :  they  only 
take  an  impression  they  were  not  born  with  a  record  of 
thought  on  the  brain,  or  an  instinct  of  sensation  on  the 
heart.  If  I  had  never  seen  a  printed  volume.  Nature  would 
have  offered  my  perceptions  a  varying  picture  of  a  continu- 
ous narrative,  which,  without  any  other  teacher  than  herself, 
would  have  schooled  me  to  knowledge,  unsophisticated,  but 
genuine. 

*'  Before  I  received  your  last,  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  tell  you  that  I  should  expect  no  letter  for  three  months 


LETTEK   TO   A   FRIEND.  183 

to  come  (intending  afterwards  to  extend  this  abstinence  tc 
gix  months,  for  I  am  jealous  of  becoming  dependent  on  this 
indulgence  :  you  doubtless  cannot  see  why,  because  you  do 
not  live  my  life).  Nor  shall  I  now  expect  a  letter  •  but 
since  you  say  that  you  would  like  to  write  now  and  then,  I 
cannot  say  ^  never  write,'  without  imposing  on  my  real 
wishes  a  falsehood  which  they  reject,  and  doing  io  them  a 
violence,  to  which  they  entirely  refuse  to  submit.  I  can 
only  observe  that  when  it  pleases  you  to  write,  whether  so- 
riously  or  for  a  little   amusement,  your  notes,  if  they  come 

to  me,  will  come  where  they  are  welcome.     Tell  ■ I  will 

try  to  cultivate  good  spirits,  as  assiduously  as  she  cultivates 
her  geraniums." 


184 


TIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BFwONTE 


CHAPTEE  X. 

Soon  after  she  returned  home,  her  friend  paid  her  a  visit. 
While  she  stayed  at  Haworth,  Miss  Bronte  wrote  the  letter 
from  which  the  following  extract  is  taken.  The  strong  sense 
and  right  feeling  displayed  in  it  on  the  subject  of  friend- 
ship, sufficiently  account  for  the  constancy  of  affection  which 
Miss  Bronte  earned  from  all  those  who  once  became  her 
friends. 

TO  W.  S.  WILLIAMS,  ESQ. 

"July  21st,  1851. 

"...  I  could  not  help  wondering  whether  Cornhill  will 
ever  change  for  me,  as  Oxford  has  changed  for  you.  I  have 
some  pleasant  associations  connected  with  it  now — will  these 
alter  their  character  some  day  ? 

^'  Perhaps  they  may — though  I  have  faith  to  the  contra- 
ry, because  I  thinkj  I  do  not  exaggerate  my  partialities ;  I 
think  I  take  faults  along  with  excellences — ^blemishes  to- 
gether with  beauties.  And,  besides,  in  the  matter  of  friend- 
ship, I  have  observed  that  disappointment  here  arises  chiefly, 
not  from  liking  our  friends  too  well,  or  thinking  of  them  too 
highly,  but  rather  from  an  over-estimate  of  their  liking  for 
and  opinion  of  us  ;  and  that  if  we  guard  ourselves  with  suf- 
ficient scrupulousness  of  care  from  error  in  this  direction, 
and  can  be  content,  and  even  happy  to  give  more   affection 


REMARKS   ON   FRIENDSHIP.  185 

than  we  receive — can  make  just  comparison  of  circumstances, 
and  be  severely  accurate  in  drawing  inferences  thence,  and 
never  let  self-love  blind  our  eyes — I  think  we  may  managa 
to  get  through  life  with  consistency  and  constancy,  unembit- 
fcered  by  that  misanthropy  which  springs  from  revulsions  of 
feeling.  All  this  sounds  a  little  metaphysical,  but  it  is  good 
sense  if  you  consider  it.  The  moral  of  it  is,  that  if  wo 
would  build  on  a  sure  foundation  in  friendship,  we  must  love 
our  friends  for  their  sakes  rather  than  for  our  own  ;  we  must 
look  at  their  truth  to  themselves^  full  as  much  as  their  truth 
to  us.  In  the  latter  case,  every  wound  to  self-love  would  be 
a  cause  of  coldness ;  in  the  former,  only  some  painful  change 
in  the  friend's  character  and  disposition  —  some  fearful 
breach  in  his  allegiance  to  his  better  self — could  alienate  the 
heart. 

"  How  interesting  your  old  maiden-cousin's  gossip  aDout 
your  parents  must  have  been  to  you  ;  and  how  gratifying  to 
find  that  the  reminiscence  turned  on  none  but  pleasant  facts 
and  characteristics  !  Life  must,  indeed,  be  slow  in  that  lit- 
tle decaying  hamlet  amongst  the  chalk  hills.  After  all,  de- 
pend upon  it,  it  is  better  to  be  worn  out  with  work  in  a 
thronged  community,  than  to  perish  of  inaction  in  a  stag- 
nant solitude  :  take  this  truth  into  consideration  whenever 
you  get  tired  of  work  and  bustle." 

I  received  a  letter  from  her  a  little  later  than  this  ;  and 
though  there  is  reference  throughout  to  what  I  must  have 
said  in  writing  to  her,  all  that  it  called  forth  in  reply  is  so 
peculiarly  characteristic,  that  I  cannot  prevail  upon  myself 
to  pass  it  over  without  a  few  extracts  : — 

*'  Haworth,  Aug.  6th,  1851. 
"  My  dear  Mrs.  Gaskeil, — I  was  too  much  pleased  with 
your  letter,  when  I  got  it  at  last,  to  feel  disposed  to  murmui 
now  about  the  delay. 


186  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BR0:N'TE. 

"  About  a  fortniglit  ago,  I  received  a  letter  from  Mi.sa 
Martineau;  also  a  long  letter,  and  treating  precisely  the 
same  subjects  on  which  yours  dwelt,  viz.,  the  Exhibition  and 
Thackeray's  last  lecture.  It  was  interesting  mentally  to 
place  the  two  documents  side  by  side — to  study  the  two 
aspects  of  mind — to  view,  alternately,  the  same  scene  through 
two  mediums.  Full  striking  was  the  difference ;  and  the 
more  striking  because  it  was  not  the  rough  contrast  of  good 
and  evil,  but  the  more  subtle  opposition,  the  more  delicate 
diversity  of  different  kinds  of  good.  The  excellences  of  one 
nature  resembled  (I  thought)  that  of  some  sovereign  medicine 
— harsh,  perhaps,  to  the  taste,  but  potent  to  invigorate ;  the 
good  of  the  other  seemed  more  akin  to  the  nourishing  efficacy 
of  our  daily  bread.  It  is  not  bitter ;  it  is  not  lusciously 
sweet :  it  pleases,  without  flattering  the  palate ;  it  sustains, 
without  forcing  the  strength. 

'*  I  very  much  agree  with  you  in  all  3'ou  sa}^  For  the 
sake  of  variety,  I  could  almost  wish  that  the  concord  of 
opinion  were  less  complete, 

"To  begin  with  Trafalgar  Square.  My  taste  goes  with 
yours  and  M eta's  completely  on  this  point.  I  have  always 
thought  it  a  fine  site  (and  sight  also).  The  view  from  the 
summit  of  those  steps  has  ever  struck  me  as  grand  and 
imposing — Nelson  Column  included  :  the  fountains  I  could 
dispense  with.  With  respect,  also,  to  the  Crystal  Palace, 
my  thoughts  are  precisely  yours. 

"  Then  I  feel  sure  you  speak  justly  of  Thackeray's  lecture. 
You  do  well  to  set  aside  odious  comparisons,  and  to  wax  im- 
patient of  that  trite  twaddle  about  ^  nothing  newness ' — a 
jargon  which  simply  proves,  in  those  who  habitually  use  it,  a 
coarse  and  feeble  faculty  of  appreciation;  an  inability  to 
discern  the  relative  value  oi  originality  and  novelty;  a  lack 
of  that  refined  perception  which,  dispensing  with  the  stimulus 
>f  an  ever-new  subject,  can  derive  sufficiency  of  pleasure  from 


TWO   VIEWS    OF   THE    SAME    SUBJECTS.  187 

frcsliness  of  treatment.  To  sucli  critics,  the  prime  of  a 
summer  morning  would  bring  no  delight ;  wholly  occupied 
with  railing  at  their  cook  for  not  having  provided  a  novel 
and  piquant  breakfast-dish,  they  would  remain  insensible  to 
such  influences  as  lie  in  sunrise,  dew,  and  breeze  :  therein 
would  be  *  nothing  new.' 

*'  It  is  Mr. \s  family  experience  which  has  influenced 

your  feelings  about  the  Catholics  ?  I  own,  I  cannot  be  sor- 
ry for  this  commencing  change.  Good  people — very  good 
people — I  doubt  not,  there  are  amongst  the  Romanists,  but 
the  system  is  not  one  which  should  have  such  sympathy  as 
yours.     Look  at  Popery  taking  off  the  mask  in  Naples  ! 

^  I  have  read  the  ^  Saints'  Tragedy.'  As  a  ^  work  of  art ' 
it  seems  to  me  far  superior  to  either  ^ Alton  Locke'  or 
*  Yeast.'  Faulty  it  maybe,  crude  and  unequal,  yet  there  are 
portions  where  some  of  the  deep  chords  of  human  nature  are 
swept  with  a  hand  which  is  strong  even  while  it  falters.  We 
see  throughout  (I  think)  that  Elizabeth  has  not,  and  never 
had,  a  mind  perfectly  sane.  From  the  time  that  she  was 
what  she  herself,  in  the  exaggeration  of  her  humility,  calls 
'  an  idiot  girl,'  to  the  hour  when  she  lay  moaning  in  visions 
on  her  dying  bed,  a  slight  craze  runs  through  her  whole  ex- 
istence. This  is  good:  this  is  true.  A  sound  mind,  a 
healthy  intellect,  would  have  dashed  the  priest-power  to  the 
wall ;  would  have  defended  her  natural  affections  from  his 
grasp,  as  a  lioness  defends  her  young ;  would  have  been  as 
tfue  to  husband  and  children,  as  your  leal-hearted  little 
Maggie  was  to  her  Frank.  Only  a  mind  weak  with  some 
fatal  flaw  could  have  been  influenced  as  was  this  poor  saint's. 
But  what  anguish — what  struggles  !  Seldom  do  I  cry  over 
books;  but  here,  my  eyes  rained  as  I  read.  When  Elizabeth 
turns  her  face  to  the  wall — I  stopped — there  needed  no 
more. 

"Deep  truths  are  touched  on  in  this  tragedy— touched 


188  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BROJi^TE. 

on,  not  fully  elicited ;  truths  that  stir  a  peculiar  pity — a 
compassion  hot  witli  wrath,  and  bitter  with  pain.  This  is  no 
poet's  dream  :  we  know  that  such  things  have  been  done ; 
that  minds  ho^ve  been  thus  subjugated,  and  lives  thus  laid 
waste. 

"  Kemember  me  kindly  and  respectfully  to  Mr.  Gaskell, 
and  though  I  have  not  seen  Marianne,  I  must  beg  to  include 
her  in  the  love  I  send  the  others.  Could  you  manage  to 
convey  a  small  kiss  to  that  dear,  but  dangerous  little  person, 
Julia  ?  She  surreptitiously  possessed  herself  of  a  minute 
fraction  of  my  heart,  which  has  been  missing  ever  since  I  saw 
her. — Believe  me,  sincerely  and  affectionately  yours, 

''  C.  Bronte." 

The  reference  which  she  makes  at  the  end  of  this  letter 
is  to  my  youngest  little  girl,  between  whom  and  her  a  strong 
mutual  attraction  existed.  The  child  would  steal  her  little 
hand  into  Miss  Bronte's  scarcely  larger  one,  and  each  took 
pleasure  in  this  apparently  unobserved  caress.  Yet  once 
when  I  told  Julia  to  take  and  show  her  the  way  to  some 
room  in  the  house,  Miss  Bronte  shrunk  back  :  '^  Do  not  hid 
her  do  anything  for  me,"  she  said ;  *^  it  has  been  so  sweet 
hitherto  to  have  her  rendering  her  little  kindnesses  spontanea 
ouslyy 

As  illustrating  her  feelings  with  regard  to  children,  I 
may  give  what  she  says  in  another  of  her  letters  to  me. 

"  Whenever  I  see  Florence  and  Julia  again,  I  shall  feel 
like  a  fond  but  bashful  suitor,  who  views  at  a  distance  the 
fair  personage  to  whom,  in  his  clownish  awe,  he  dare  not 
risk  a  near  approach.  Such  is  the  clearest  idea  I  can  give 
you  of  my  feeling  towards  children  I  like,  but  to  whom  I  am 
a  stranger ; — and  to  what  children  am  I  not  a  stranger  ? 
They  seem  to  me  little  wonders ;  their  talk,  their  ways  are 
all  matter  of  half-admiring,  half-puzzled  speculation." 


ON   AN   ARTICLE   BY   J.    S.    MILL.  189 

The  following  is  part  of  a  long  letter  which  I  received 
from  her,  dated  September  20th,  1851  : — 

"...  Beautiful  are  those  sentences  out  of  James  Mar- 
tineau's  sermons ;  some  of  them  gems  most  pure  and  genu- 
ine ;  ideas  deeply  conceived,  finely  expressed.  I  should  like 
much  to  see  his  review  of  his  sister's  book.  Of  all  the  arti- 
cles respecting  which  you  question  me,  I  have  seen  none,  ex- 
cept that  notable  one  in  the  '  Westminster  '  on  the  Emanci- 
pation of  Women.  But  why  are  you  and  I  to  think  (perhaps 
I  should  rather  say  to  feel)  so  exactly  alike  on  some  points 
that  there  can  be  no  discussion  between  us  ?  Your  words  on 
this  paper  express  my  thoughts.  Well-argued  it  is, — clear, 
logical, — but  vast  is  the  hiatus  of  omission ;  harsh  the  conse- 
quent jar  on  every  finer  chord  of  the  soul.  What  is  this  hi- 
atus ?  I  think  I  know ;  and,  knowing,  I  will  venture  to  say. 
I  think  the  writer  forgets  there  is  such  a  thing  as  self-sacri- 
ficing love  and  disinterested  devotion.  When  I  first  read 
the  paper,  I  thought  it  was  the  work  of  a  powerful-minded, 
clear-headed  woman,  who  had  a  hard,  jealous  heart,  muscles 
of  iron,  and  nerves  of  bend  *  leather  ;  of  a  woman  who  langed 
for  power,  and  had  never  felt  affection.  To  many  women  af- 
fection is  sweet,  and  power  conquered  indifferent — though  we 
all  like  influence  won.  I  believe  J.  S.  Mill  would  make  a 
hard,  dry,  dismal  world  of  it ;  and  yet  he  speaks  admirable 
sense  through  a  great  portion  of  his  article — especially  when 
he  says,  that  if  there  be  a  natural  unfitness  in  women  for  men's 
employment,  there  is  no  need  to  make  laws  on  the  subject ; 
leave  all  careers  open  ;  let  them  try  ;  those  who  ought  to  suc- 
ceed will  succeed,  or,  at  least,  will  have  a  fair  chance — the  in- 
capable will  fall  back  into  their  right  place.  He  likewise 
disposes  of  the  ^  maternity  '  question  very  neatly.     In  short, 

*  "  Bend,"  in  Yorkshire,  is  strong  ox  leather. 


190  LIFE    OF   CIIAELOTTE   BRONTE. 

J.  S.  Mill's  head  is,  I  dare  say,  very  good,  but  I  feel  disposed 
to  scorn  his  heart.  You  are  right  when  you  say  that  there 
is  a  large  margin  in  human  nature  over  which  the  logicians 
have  no  dominion  ;  glad  am  I  that  it  is  so. 

"  I  send  by  this  post  Ruskin's  '  Stones  of  Venice,'  and  I 
hope  you  and  Meta  will  find  passages  in  it  that  will  please 
you.  Some  parts  would  be  dry  and  technical  were  it  not  for 
the  character,  the  marked  individuality  which  pervades  every 
page.  I  wish  Marianne  had  come  to  speak  to  me  at  the 
lecture  ;  it  would  have  given  me  such  pleasure.  What  you 
say  of  that  small  sprite  Julia,  amuses  me  much.  I  believe 
you  don't  know  that  she  has  a  great  deal  of  her  mama's  na- 
ture (modified)  in  her ;  yet  I  think  you  will  find  she  has  as 
she  grows  up. 

"  Will  it  not  be  a  great  mistake,  if  Mr.  Thackeray  should 
deliver  his  lectures  at  Manchester  under  such  circumstances 
and  conditions  as  will  exclude  people  like  you  and  Mr.  Gas- 
kell  from  the  number  of  his  audience  ?  I  thought  his  Lon- 
don plan  too  narrow.  Charles  Dickens  would  not  thus  limit 
his  sphere  of  action. 

"  You  charge  me  to  write  about  myself.  What  can  I  say 
en  that  precious  topic  ?  My  health  is  pretty  good.  My 
spirits  arc  not  always  alike.  Nothing  happens  to  me.  I 
hope  and  expect  little  in  this  world,  and  am  thankful  that  1 
do  not  despond  and  sufi'er  more.  Thank  you  for  inquiring 
after  our  old  servant ;  she  is  pretty  well ;  the  little  shawl, 
&c.  pleased  her  much.  Papa  likewise,  I  am  glad  to  say,  is 
pretty  well ;  with  his  and  my  kindest  regards  to  you  and 
Mr.  Gaskell — Believe  me  sincerely  and  afi'ectionately  yours, 

^'C.  Bkonte." 

Before  the  autumn  was  far  advanced,  the  usual  effects  of 
her  solitary  life,  and  of  the  unhealthy  situation  of  Ilaworth 
Parsonage,  began  to  appear  in  the  form  of  sick-headaches 


MOKE   ILLNESS   AT   HAWOETH   PARSONAGE.  191 

and  miserable,  starting,  wakeful  niglits.  She  does  not  dwell 
on  this  in  her  letters  ;  but  there  is  an  absence  of  all  cheer- 
fulness of  tone,  and  an  occasional  sentence  forced  out  of  her, 
which  imply  far  more  than  many  words  could  say.  There 
was  illness  all  through  the  Parsonage  household — taking  its 
accustomed  forms  of  lingering  influenza  and  low  fever;  she 
herself  was  outwardly  the  strongest  of  the  family,  and  all 
domestic  exertion  fell  for  a  time  upon  her  shoulders. 

TO    W.    S.    WILLIAMS,    ESQ. 

*'  Sept.  2Cth. 

'^  As  I  laid  down  your  letter,  after  reading  with  interest 
the  graphic  account  it  gives  of  a  very  striking  scene,  I  could 
not  help  feeling  with  renewed  force  a  truth,  trite  enough,  yet 
ever  impressive ;  viz.,  that  it  is  good  to  be  attracted  out  of 
ourselves — to  be  forced  to  take  a  near  view  of  the  sufferings, 
the  privations,  the  efforts,  the  difficulties  of  others.  If  we 
ourselves  live  in  fulness  of  content,  it  is  well  to  be  reminded 
that  thousands  of  our  fellow-creatures  undergo  a  different 
lot ;  it  is  well  to  have  sleepy  sympathies  excited,  and  lethar- 
gic selfishness  shaken  up.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  be  con- 
tending with  the  special  grief, — the  intimate  trial, — the  pe- 
culiar bitterness  with  which  God  has  seen  fit  to  mingle  our 
own  cup  of  existence, — it  is  very  good  to  know  that  our  over- 
cast lot  is  not  singular;  it  stills  the  repining  word  and 
thought, — it  rouses  the  flagging  strength,  to  have  it  vividly 
set  before  us  that  there  are  countless  afflictions  in  the  world, 
each  perhaps  rivalling — some  surpassing — the  private  pain 
over  which  we  are  too  prone  exclusively  to  sorrow. 

"  All  those  crowded  emigrants  had  their  troubles, — their 
antoward  causes  of  banishment ;  you,  the  looker-on,  had 
'  your  wishes  and  regrets,' — ^your  anxieties,  alloying  your 
home  happiness  and  domestic  bliss ;  and  the  parallel  might 
m  pursued  further,  and  still  it  would  be  true^, — still  the 


192  LIFE    OF    CIIAKLOTTE   BEONTE. 

same  ;  a  thorn  in  tlie  flesli  for  each;  some  burden,  some  con- 
flict for  all. 

"  How  far  this  state  of  things  is  susceptible  of  ameliora- 
tion from  changes  in  public  institutions, — alterations  in  na- 
tional habits,— may  and  ought  to  be  earnestly  considered : 
but  this  is  a  problem  not  easily  solved.  The  evils,  as  you 
point  them  out,  are  great,  real,  and  most  obvious ;  the  rem- 
edy is  obscure  and  vague ;  yet  for  such  difficulties  as  spring 
from  over-competition,  emigration  must  be  good ;  the  new 
life  in  a  new  country  must  give  a  new  lease  of  hope ;  the 
wider  field,  less  thickly  peopled,  must  open  a  new  path  for 
endeavour.  But  I  always  think  great  physical  powers  of 
exertion  and  endurance  ought  to  accompany  such  a  step.  .  . 
.  .  I  am  truly  glad  to  hear  that  an  original  writer  has  fallen 
in  your  way.  Originality  is  the  pearl  of  great  price  in  lite- 
rature,— the  rarest,  the  most  precious  claim  by  which  an  au- 
thor can  be  recommended.  Are  not  your  publishing  pros- 
pects for  the  comiog  season  tolerably  rich  and  satisfactory  ? 
You  inquire  after  ^  Currer  Bell.'  It  seems  to  me  that  the 
absence  of  his  name  from  your  list  of  announcements  will 
leave  no  blank,  and  that  he  may  at  least  spare  himself  the 
disquietude  of  thinking  he  is  wanted  when  it  is  certainly  not 
his  lot  to  appear. 

"  Perhaps  Currer  Bell  has  his  secret  moan  about  these 
matters ;  but  if  so,  he  will  keep  it  to  himself  It  is  an  affair 
about  which  no  words  need  be  wasted,  for  no  words  can  make 
a  change :  it  is  between  him  and  his  position,  his  faculties 
and  his  fate." 

My  husband  and  I  were  anxious  that  she  should  pay  us 
a  visit  before  the  winter  had  set  completely  in ;  and  she  thus 
wrote,  declining  our  invitation : — 

*'  Nov.  6th. 

*^  If  anybody  would  tempt  me  from  home,  you  would ; 
but,  just  now,  from  home  I  must  not,  will  not  go.     I  feel 


A   VISIT   FROM  MISS   WOOLER.  193 

greatly  better  at  present  than  I  did  three  weeks  ago.  For  a 
month  or  six  weeks  about  the  equinox  (autumnal  or  vernal) 
is  a  period  of  the  year  which,  I  have  noticed,  strangely  tries 
me.  Sometimes  the  strain  falls  on  the  mental,  sometimes 
on  the  physical  part  of  me ;  I  am  ill  with  neuralgic  head- 
ache, or  I  am  ground  to  the  dust  with  deep  dejection  of 
spirits  (not,  however,  such  dejection  but  I  can  keep  it  to  my- 
self). That  weary  time  has,  I  think  and  trust,  got  over  for 
this  year.  It  was  the  anniversary  of  my  poor  brother\s 
death,  and  of  my  sister's  failing  health :  I  need  say  no  more. 

"  As  to  running  away  from  home  every  time  I  have  a 
battle  of  this  sort  to  fight,  it  would  not  do :  besides,  the 
*  weird  '  would  follow.     As  to  shaking  it  ofi*,  that  cannot  be. 

I  have  declined  to  go  to  Mrs. ,  to  Miss  Martineau,  and 

now  I  decline  to  go  to  you.  But  listen  !  do  not  think  that 
I  throw  your  kindness  away:  or  that  it  fails  of  doing  the 
good  you  desire.  On  the  contrary,  the  feeling  expressed  in 
your  letter, — ^proved  by  your  invitation — goes  right  home 
where  you  would  have  it  to  go,  and  heals  as  you  would  have 
it  to  heal. 

"  Your  description  of  Frederika  Bremer  tallies  exactly 
with  one  I  read  somewhere,  in  I  know  not  what  book.  I 
laughed  out  when  I  got  to  the  mention  of  Frederika's  special 
accomplishment,  given  by  you  with  a  distinct  simplicity  that, 
to  my  taste,  is  what  the  French  would  call  *  impayable.' 
Where  do  you  find  the  foreigner  who  is  without  some  little 
drawback  of  this  description  ?     It  is  a  pity." 

A  visit  from  Miss  Wooler  at  this  period  did  Miss 
Bronte  much  good  for  the  time.  She  speaks  of  her  guest's 
company  as  being  "  very  pleasant,"  "  like  good  wine,"  both 
to  her  father  and  to  herself.  But  Miss  Wooler  could  not 
remain  with  her  long ;  and  then  again  the  monotony  of  her 
life  returned  upon  her  in  all  its  force  ;  the  only  events  of  her 
days  and  weeks  consisting  in  the  small  changes  which  occa- 

VOL.    II. — 9 


194  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

Bional  letters  brought.  It  must  be  remembered  tliat  Lei 
health  was  often  such  as  to  prevent  her  stirring  out  of  the 
house  in  inclement  or  wintry  weather.  She  was  liable  to 
sore  throat,  and  depressing  pain  at  the  chest,  and  diflOiculty 
of  breathiug,  on  the  least  exposure  to  cold. 

A  letter  from  her  late  visitor  touched  and  gratified  her 
much ;  it  was  simply  expressive  of  gratitude  for  attention 
and  kindness  shown  to  her,  but  it  wound  up  by  saying  that 
she  had  not  for  many  years  experienced  so  much  enjoyment 
.as  during  the  ten  days  passed  at  Haworth.  This  little  sen- 
tence called  out  a  wholesome  sensation  of  modest  pleasure 
in  Miss  Bronte's  mind ;  and  she  says,  "  it  did  me  good." 

I  find,  in  a  letter  to  a  distant  friend,  written  about  this 
time,  a  retrospect  of  her  visit  to  London.  It  is  too  ample 
to  be  considered  as  a  mere  repetition  of  what  she  had  said 
before ;  and,  besides,  it  shows  that  her  first  impressions  of 
what  she  saw  and  heard  were  not  crude  and  transitory,  but 
stood  the  tests  of  time  and  after -thought. 

"  I  spent  a  few  weeks  in  town  last  summer,  as  you  have 
heard  ;  and  was  much  interested  by  many  things  I  heard  and 
saw  there.  What  now  chiefly  dwells  in  my  memory  are  Mr. 
Thackeray's  lectures,  Mademoiselle  Rachel's  acting,  D'Au- 
bigne's,  Melville's,  and  Maurice's  preaching,  and  the  Crys- 
tal Palace. 

"  Mr.  Thackeray's  lectures  you  will  have  seen  mentioned 
and  commented  on  in  the  papers ;  they  were  very  interest- 
ing. I  could  not  always  coincide  with  the  sentiment  ex- 
pressed, or  the  opinions  broached ;  but  I  admired  the  gen- 
tlemanlike ease,  the  quiet  humour,  the  taste,  the  talent,  the 
simplicity,  and  the  originality  of  the  lecturer. 

^'  Rachel's  acting  transfixed  me  with  wonder,  enchained 
me  with  interest,  and  thrilled  me  with  horror.  The  tremen- 
dous force  with  which  she  expresses  the  very  worst  passions 


1 


IMPliESSIONS   OF   HEE   FIKST   VISIT   TO   LONDON.     195 

in  their  strongest  essence  forms  an  exhibition  as  exciting  a  a 
the  bull-fights  of  Spain,  and  the  gladiatorial  combats  of  old 
Rome,  and  (it  seemed  to  me)  not  one  whit  more  moral  than 
these  poisoned  stimulants  to  popular  ferocity.  It  is  scarcely 
human  nature  that  she  shows  you  ;  it  is  something  wilder 
and  worse ;  the  feelings  and  fury  of  a  fiend.  The  great  gift 
of  genius  she  undoubtedly  has  ;  but,  I  fear,  she  rather  abuses 
it  than  turns  it  to  good  account. 

"  With  all  the  three  preachers  I  was  greatly  pleased. 
Melville  seemed  to  me  the  most  eloquent,  Maurice  the  most 
in  earnest ;  had  I  the  choice,  it  is  Maurice  whose  ministry  I 
should  frequent. 

"  On  the  Crystal  Palace  I  need  not  comment.  You 
must  already  have  heard  too  much  of  it.  It  struck  me  at 
the  first  with  only  a  vague  sort  of  wonder  and  admiration ; 
but  having  one  day  the  privilege  of  going  over  it  in  com- 
pany with  an  eminent  countryman  of  yours.  Sir  David 
Brewster,  and  hearing,  in  his  friendly  Scotch  accent,  his 
lucid  explanation  of  many  things  that  had  been  to  me  before 
a  sealed  book,  I  began  a  little  better  to  comprehend  it,  or  at 
least  a  small  part  of  it :  whether  its  final  results  will  equal 
expectation,  I  know  not." 

Her  increasing  indisposition  subdued  her  at  last,  in  spite 
of  all  her  efforts  of  reason  and  will.  She  tried  to  forget 
oppressive  recollections  in  writing.  Her  publishers  were 
importunate  for  a  new  work  from  her  pen.  ^'  Villette  "  was 
begun,  but  she  lacked  power  to  continue  it. 

"  It  is  not  at  all  likely  "  (she  says)  "  that  my  book  will 
be  ready  at  the  time  you  mention.  If  my  health  is  spared, 
I  shall  get  on  with  it  as  fast  as  is  consistent  with  its  being 
done,  if  not  well^  yet  as  well  as  I  can  do  it.  Not  one  whit 
faster.     When  the  mood  leaves  me  (it  has  left  me  now, 


196  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

without  vouchsafing  so  much  as  a  word  or  a  message  when  it 
will  return)  I  put  by  the  MS.  and  wait  till  it  comes  back 
again.  God  knows,  I  sometimes  have  to  wait  long — very 
long  it  seems  to  me.  Meantime,  if  I  might  make  a  request 
to  you,  it  would  be  this.  Please  to  say  nothing  about  my 
book  till  it  is  written,  and  in  your  hands.  You  may  not 
like  it.  I  am  not  myself  elated  with  it  as  far  as  it  is  gone, 
and  authors,  you  need  not  be  told,  are  always  tenderly  in- 
dulgent, even  blindly  partial  to  their  own.  Even  if  it  should 
turn  out  reasonably  well,  still  I  regard  it  as  ruin  to  the  pros- 
perity of  an  ephemeral  book  like  a  novel,  to  be  much  talked 
of  beforehand,  as  if  it  were  something  great.  People  are 
apt  to  conceive,  or  at  least  to  profess,  exaggerated  expecta- 
tion, such  as  no  performance  can  realise:  then  ensue  disap- 
pointment and  the  due  revenge,  detraction,  and  failure.  If 
when  I  write,  I  were  to  think  of  the  critics  who,  I  know, 
are  waiting  for  Currer  Bell,  ready  ^  to  break  all  his  bones  or 
ever  he  comes  to  the  botton  of  the  den,'  my  hand  would  fall 
paralysed  on  my  desk.  However,  I  can  but  do  my  best, 
and  then  muffle  my  head  in  the  mantle  of  Patience,  and  sit 
down  at  her  feet  and  wait." 

The  "  mood  "  here  spoken  of  did  not  go  off;  it  had  a 
physical  origin.  Indigestion,  nausea,  headache,  sleepless- 
ness,— all  combined  to  produce  miserable  depression  of 
spirits.  A  little  event  which  occurred  about  this  time,  did 
not  tend  to  cheer  her.  It  was  the  death  of  poor  old  faithful 
Keeper,  Emily's  dog.  He  had  come  to  the  Parsonage  in 
the  fierce  strength  of  his  youth.  Sullen  and  ferocious  he 
had  met  with  his  master  in  the  indomitable  Emily.  Like 
most  dogs  of  his  kind,  he  feared,  respected,  and  deeply 
loved  her  who  subdued  him.  He  had  mourned  her  with 
the  pathetic  fidelity  of  his  nature,  falling  into  old  age  after 
her  death.     And  now,  her  surviving  sister  wrote:  ^'Poor 


HER   INCKEASING   ILLNESS.  197 

old  Keeper  died  last  Monday  morning,  after  being  ill  one 
night ;  he  went  gently  to  sleep ;  we  laid  his  old  faithful  head 
in  the  garden.  Flossy  (the  *  fat  curly-headed  dog ')  is  dull, 
and  misses  him.  There  was  something  very  sad  in  losing 
the  old  dog ;  yet  I  am  glad  he  met  a  natural  fate.  People 
kept  hinting  he  ought  to  he  put  away,  which  neither  papa 
nor  I  liked  to  think  of." 

When  Miss  Bronte  wrote  this,  on  December  8th,  she 
was  suffering  from  a  bad  cold,  and  pain  in  her  side.  Her 
illness  increased,  and  on  December  17th,  she — so  patient, 
silent,  and  enduring  of  suffering — so  afraid  of  any  unselfish 
taxing  of  others — ^had  to  call  to  her  friend  for  help  : 

"  I  cannot  at  present  go  to  see  you,  but  I  would  be 
grateful  if  you  could  come  and  see  me,  even  were  it  only  for 
a  few  days.  To  speak  truth,  I  have  put  on  but  a  poor  time 
of  it  during  this  month  past.  I  kept  hoping  to  be  better, 
but  was  at  last  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  a  medical  man. 
Sometimes  I  have  felt  very  weak  and  low,  and  longed  much 
for  society,  but  could  not  persuade  myself  to  commit  the 
selfish  act  of  asking  you  merely  for  my  own  relief.  The 
doctor  speaks  encouragingly,  but  as  yet  I  get  no  better.  As 
the  illness  has  been  coming  on  for  a  long  time,  it  cannot,  I 
suppose,  be  expected  to  disappear  all  at  once.  I  am  not 
confined  to  bed,  but  I  am  weak, — ^have  had  no  appetite  for 
about  three  weeks — and  my  nights  are  very  bad.  I  am  well 
aware  myself  that  extreme  and  continuous  depression  of 
spirits  has  had  much  to  do  with  the  origin  of  the  illness ;  and 
I  know  a  little  cheerful  society  would  do  me  more  good  than 
gallons  of  medicine.  If  you  can  come,  come  on  Friday. 
Write  to-morrow  and  say  whether  this  be  possible,  and  what 
time  you  will  be  at  Keighley,  that  I  may  send  the  gig. 
I  do  not  ask  you  to  stay  long:  a  few  days  is  all  I  re* 
^uest." 


198  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

Of  course,  her  friend  went ;  and  a  certain  amount  of 
benefit  was  derived  from  her  society,  always  so  grateful  to 
Miss  Bronte.  But  the  evil  was  now  too  deep-rooted  to  be 
more  than  palliated  for  a  time  by  "  the  little  cheerful  so« 
ciety  "  for  which  she  so  touchingly  besought. 

A  relapse  came  on  before  long.  She  was  very  ill,  and  the 
remedies  employed  took  an  unusual  efiect  on  her  peculiar  sen- 
eitiveness  of  constitution.  Mr.  Bronte  was  miserably  anx- 
ious about  the  state  of  his  only  remaining  child,  for  she  was 
reduced  to  the  last  degree  of  weakness,  as  she  had  been  un- 
able to  swallow  food  for  above  a  week  before.  She  rallied, 
and  derived  her  sole  sustenance  from  half-a-tea-cup  of  liquid, 
administered  by  tea-spoonfuls,  in  the  course  of  the  day.  Yet 
she  kept  out  of  bed,  for  her  father's  sake,  and  struggled  in 
solitary  patience  through  her  worst  hours. 

When  she  was  recovering,  her  spirits  needed  support, 
and  then  she  yielded  to  her  friend's  entreaty  that  she  would 
visit   her.      All  the   time  that  Miss   Bronte's  illness  had 

lasted,  Miss had  been  desirous  of  coming  to  her ;  but 

she  refused  to  avail  herself  of  this  kindness,  saying,  that 
"it  was  enough  to  burden  herself;  that  it  would  be  misery 
to  annoy  another ;  "  and,  even  at  her  worst  time,  she  tells 
her  friend,  with  humorous  glee,  how  coolly  she  had  managed 

to  capture  one  of  Miss 's  letters  to  Mr.  Bronte,  which 

she  suspected  was  of  a  kind  to  aggravate  his  alarm  about  his 
daughter's  state,  "and  at  once  conjecturing  its  tenor,  made 
its  contents  her  own." 

Happily  for  all  parties,  Mr.  Bronte  was  wonderfully  well 
this  winter ;  good  sleep,  good  spirits,  and  an  excellent  steady 
*fcppetite,  all  seemed  to  mark  vigour  ;  and  in  such  a  state  of 
health,  Charlotte  could  leave  him  to  spend  a  week  with  her 
friend,  without  any  great  anxiety. 

She  benefited  greatly  by  the  kind  attentions  and   cheer- 


HER  SUFFEKINGS  DURING  WINTER.        199 

ful  society  of  the  family  witli  -whom  slie  went  to  stay.  Tlipy 
did  not  care  for  her  in  the  least  as  "  Currer  Bell,"  but  had 
known  and  loved  her  for  years  as  Charlotte  Bronte.  To 
them  her  invalid  weakness  was  only  a  fresh  claim  npon  their 
tender  regard,  from  the  solitary  woman,  whom  they  had  first 
known  as  a  little,  motherless  school-girl. 

Miss  Bronte  wrote  to  me  about  this  time,  and  told  me 
something  of  what  she  had  suffered. 

"  Feb.  6tli,  1852. 
"  Certainly,  the  past  winter  has  been  to  me  a  strange 
time ;  had  I  the  prospect  before  me  of  living  it  over  again, 
my  prayer  must  necessarily  be,  ^  Let  this  cup  pass  from  me.' 
That  depression  of  spirits,  which  I  thought  was  gone  by  when 
I  wrote  last,  came  back  again  with  a  heavy  recoil ;  internal 
congestion  ensued,  and  then  inflammation.  I  had  severe 
pain  in  my  right  side,  frequent  burning  and  aching  in  my 
chest ;  sleep  almost  forsook  me,  or  would  never  come,  except 
accompanied  by  ghastly  dreams  ;  appetite  vanished,  and  slow 
fever  was  my  continual  companion.  It  was  some  time  be- 
fore I  could  bring  myself  to  have  recourse  to  medical 
advice.  I  thought  my  lungs  were  affected,  and  could  feel 
no  confidence  in  the  power  of  medicine.  When,  at  last, 
however,  a  doctor  was  consulted,  he  declared  my  lungs  and 
chest  sound,  and  ascribed  all  my  sufferings  to  derangement 
of  tne  liver,  on  which  organ  it  seems  the  inflammation  had 
fallen.  This  information  was  a  great  relief  to  my  dear 
father,  as  well  as  to  myself;  but  I  had  subsequently  rather 
sharp  medical  discipline  to  undergo,  and  was  much  reduced. 
Though  not  yet  well,  is  is  with  deep  thankfulness  that  I  can 
say,  I  am  greatly  better.  My  sleep,  appetite,  and  strength 
seem  all  returning." 

It  was  a  great  interest  to  her  to  be  allowed  an  early 


200  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

reading  of  "  Esmond  ;  "  and  she  expressed  her  thoughts  on 
the  subject,  in  a  criticising  letter  to  Mr.  Smith,  who  had 
given  her  this  privilege. 

"  Feb.  Uth,  1852. 

^^  My  dear  Sir, — It  has  been  a  great  delight  to  me  to 
read  Mr.  Thackeray^s  work;  and  I  so  seldom  now  express 
my  sense  of  kindness  that,  for  once,  you  must  permit  me, 
without  rebuke,  to  thank  you  for  a  pleasure  so  rare  and 
special.  Yet  I  am  not  going  to  praise  either  Mr.  Thackeray 
or  his  book.  I  have  read,  enjoyed,  been  interested,  and,  after 
all,  feel  full  as  much  ire  and  sorrow  as  gratitude  and  admira- 
tion. And  still  one  can  never  lay  down  a  book  of  his  with- 
out the  last  two  feelings  having  their  part,  be  the  subject  or 
treatment  what  it  may.  In  the  first  half  of  the  book,  what 
chiefly  struck  me  was  the  wonderful  manner  in  which  the 
writer  throws  himself  into  the  spirit  and  letters  of  the  times 
whereof  he  treats ;  the  allusions,  the  illustrations,  the  style, 
all  seem  to  me  so  masterly  in  their  exact  keeping,  their  • 
harmonious  consistency,  their  nice,  natural  truth,  their  pure 
exemption  from  exaggeration.  No  secondrate  imitator  can 
write  in  that  way;  no  coarse  scene-painter  can  charm  us 
with  an  allusion  so  delicate  and  perfect.  But  what  bitter 
satire,  what  relentless  dissection  of  diseased  subjects  !  Well, 
and  this,  too,  is  right,  or  would  be  right,  if  the  savage  sur- 
geon did  not  seem  so  fiercely  pleased  with  his  work.  Thack- 
eray likes  to  dissect  an  ulcer  or  an  aneurism ;  he  has  pleasure 
in  putting  his  cruel  knife  or  probe  into  quivering,  living 
flesh.  Thackeray  would  not  like  all  the  world  to  be  good  :  no 
great  satirist  would  like  society  to  be  perfect. 

"  As  usual,  he  is  unjust  to  women  ;  quite  unjust.  There 
is  hardly  any  punishment  he  does  not  deserve  for  making 
Lady  Castlewood  peep  through  a  keyhole,  listen  at  a  door 
and  be  jealous  of  a  boy  and  a  milkmaid.      Many  other  things 


HER   KEMAEK8    ON   THACKERAy's  "  ESMOND."       201 

I  noticed  that,  for  my  part,  grieved  and  exasperated  me  as  1 

read;  but   then,  again,  came  passages  so   true,  so  deeply 

thought,  so   tenderly  felt,  one   could  not  help  forgiving  and 

admiring. 

*  *  *  *  *  # 

But  I  wish  he  could  be  told  not  to  care  much  for  dwelling 
on  the  political  or  religious  intrigues  of  the  times.  Thack- 
eray, in  his  heart,  does  not  value  political  or  religious  in- 
trigues of  any  age  or  date.  He  likes  to  show  us  human 
nature  at  home,  as  he  himself  daily  sees  it ;  his  wonderful 
observant  faculty  likes  to  be  in  action.  In  him  this  faculty 
is  a  sort  of  captain  and  leader ;  and  if  ever  any  passage  in  his 
writings  lacks  interest,  it  is  when  this  master-faculty  is  for  a 
time  thrust  into  a  subordinate  position.  I  think  such  is  the 
case  in  the  former  half  of  the  present  volume.  Towards  the 
middle,  he  throws  off  restraint,  becomes  himself,  and  is  strong 
to  the  close.  Everything  now  depends  on  the  second  and 
third  volumes.  If,  in  pith  and  interest,  they  fall  short  of 
the  first,  a  true  success  cannot  ensue.  If  the  continuation 
be  an  improvement  upon  the  commencement,  if  the  stream 
gather  force  as  it  rolls,  Thackeray  will  triumph.  Some 
people  have  been  in  the  habit  of  terming  him  the  second 
writer  of  the  day ;  it  just  depends  on  himself  whether  or  not 
these  critics  shall  be  justified  in  their  award.  He  need  not 
be  the  second.  God  made  him  second  to  no  man.  If  I 
were  he,  I  would  show  myself  as  I  am,  not  as  critics  report 
me  ;  at  any  rate,  I  would  do  my  best.  Mr.  Thackeray  is 
easy  and  indolent,  and  seldom  cares  to  do  his  best.  Thank 
you  once  more ;  and  believe  me  yours  sincerely. 

"  0.  Bronte.'^ 

Miss  Bronte's  health  continued  such,  that  ahe  could  nvt 
apply  herself  to  writing  as  she  wished,  for  many  weeks  after 
the  serious  attack  from  which  she  had  suffered.     There  waa 
VOL.  :r. — 9* 


203  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

not  very  much  to  cheer  her  in  the  few  events  that  touched 
her  interests  during  this  time.  She  heard  in  March  of  tho 
death  of  a  friend's  relation  in  the  Colonies;  and  we  see 
something  of  what  was  the  corroding  dread  at  her  heart. 

"  The  news  of  E  's  death  came  to  me  last  week  in  a 

letter  from  M ;  a  long  letter,  which  wrung  my  heart  so 

in  its  simple,  strong,  truthful  emotion,  I  have  only  ven- 
tured to  read  it  once.  It  ripped  up  half-scarred  wounds 
with  terrible  force.  The  death-bed  was  just  the  same, — 
breath  failing,  &c.  She  fears  she  shall  now,  in  her  dreary 
solitude,  become  a  '  stern,  harsh,  selfish  woman.'  This 
fear  struck  home ;  again  and  again  have  I  felt  it  for  myself, 

and  what  is  my  position  to  M 's  ?     May  God  help  her, 

as  God  only  can  help  !  " 

Again  and  again,  her  friend  urged  her  to  leave  home ; 
nor  were  various  invitations  wanting  to  enable  her  to  do  this, 
when  these  constitutional  accesses  of  low  spirits  preyed  too 
much  upon  her  in  her  solitude.  But  she  would  not  allow 
herself  any  such  indulgence  unless  it  became  absolutely 
necessary  from  the  state  of  her  health.  She  dreaded  the 
perpetual  recourse  to  such  stimulants  as  change  of  scene  and 
society,  because  of  the  reaction  that  was  sure  to  follow.  As 
far  as  she  could  see,  her  life  was  ordained  to  be  lonely,  and 
she  must  subdue  her  nature  to  her  life,  and,  if  possible,  bring 
the  two  into  harmony.  When  she  could  employ  herself  in 
fiction,  all  was  comparatively  well.  The  characters  were  her 
companions  in  the  quiet  hours,  which  she  spent  utterly  alone, 
unable  often  to  stir  out  of  doors  for  many  days  together. 
The  interests  of  the  persons  in  her  novels  supplied  the  la<jk 
of  interest  in  her  own  life ;  and  Memory  and  Imagination 
found  their  appropriate  work,  and  ceased  to  prey  upon  her 
vitals.     But  too  frequently  she  could  not  write,  could  not 


CHAT   ON   PAPEK.  203 

see  her  people,  nor  hear  them  speak ;  a  great  mist  of  head- 
aclie  had  blotted  them  out ;  they  were  non  existent  to  her. 

This  was  the  case  all  through  the  present  spring;  and 
anxious  as  her  publishers  were  for  its  completion,  "  Villette  ' 
stood  still.  Even  her  letters  to  her  friend  are  scarce  and 
brief.  Here  and  there  I  find  a  sentence  in  them  which  can 
be  extracted,  and  which  is  worth  preserving. 

"  M  's  letter  is  very  interesting ;  it  shows  a  mind 

one  cannot  but  truly  admire.     Compare  its  serene  trustiog 

strength,  with  poor  's  vacillating  dependence.     When 

the  latter  was  in  her  first  burst  of  happiness,  I  never  remem- 
ber the  feeling  finding  vent  in  expressions  of  gratitude  to 
God.  There  was  always  a  continued  claim  upon  your  sym- 
pathy in  the  mistrust  and  doubt  she  felt  of  her  own  bliss. 

M believes ;  her  faith  is  grateful  and  at  peace ;  yet 

while  happy  in  herself,  how  thoughtful  she  is  for  others  ! '' 

"  March  23rd,  1852. 

'^  You  say,  dear  E ,  that  you   often  wish  I  would 

chat  on  paper,  as  you  do.     How  can  I  ?     Where  are  my 

materials  ?     Is  my  life  fertile  in  subjects  of  chat  ?     What 

callers  do  I  see  ?     What  visits  do  I  pay  ?     No,  you  must 

chat,   and   I   must   listen,   and    say  ^  Yes,^  and  ^  No,'    and 

*  Thank  you  ! '  for  five  minutes  '  recreation. 

^  %  ^  %f?  *- 

"I  am  amused  at  the  interest  you  take  in  politics. 
Don't  expect  to  rouse  me;  to  me,  all  ministries  and  all 
oppositions  seem  to  be  pretty  much  alike.  D 'Israeli  was 
factious  as  leader  of  the  Opposition ;  Lord  John  Russell  is 
going  to  be  factious,  now  that  he  has  stepped  into  D'Israeli's 
shoes,  Lord  Derby's  '  Christian  love  and  spirit/  is  worth 
three  half-pence  farthing." 


204  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BKONTE. 

TO    W.  S.  WILLIAMS,  ESQ. 

"March  25th,  1852. 

"  Mj  dear  Sir, — Mr.  Smith  intimated  a  short  time  since^ 
that  he  had  some  thoughts  of  publishing  a  reprint  of  *  Shirley. 
Having  revised  the  work,  I  now  enclose  the  errata.  I  have 
likewise  sent  off  to-day,  per  rail,  a  return-box  of  Cornhill 
books. 

"  I  have  lately  read  with  great  pleasui  e,  *  The  Two 
Families.^  This  work,  it  seems,  should  have  reached  me  in 
January ,  but  owing  to  a  mistake,  it  was  detained  at  the 
Dead  Letter  Office,  and  lay  there  nearly  two  months.  I 
liked  the  commencement  very  much ;  the  close  seemed  to  me 
scarcely  equal  to  ^  Eose  Douglas.'  I  thought  the  authoress 
committed  a  mistake  in  shifting  the  main  interest  from  the 
two  personages  on  whom  it  first  rests — ^viz..  Den  Wilson  and 
Mary — to  other  characters  of  quite  inferior  conception. 
Had  she  made  Den  and  Mary  her  hero  and  heroine,  and 
continued  the  development  of  their  fortunes  and  characters 
in  the  same  truthful  natural  vein  in  which  she  commences  it, 
an  excellcmt,  even  an  original,  book  might  have  been  the 
result.  As  for  Lilias  and  Donald,  they  are  mere  romantic 
figments,  with  nothing  of  the  genuine  Scottish  peasant  about 
them ;  they  do  not  even  speak  the  Caledonian  dialect ;  they 
palaver  like  a  fine  lady  and  gentleman. 

"  I  ought  long  since  to  have  acknowledged  the  gratifica 
tion  with  which  I  read  Miss  Kavanagh's  ^  Women  of  Chris- 
tianity.' Her  charity  and  (on  the  whole)  her  impartiality 
lire  very  beautiful.  She  touches,  indeed,  with  too  gentle  a 
hand  the  theme  of  Elizabeth  of  Hungary ;  and,  in  her  own 
mind,  she  evidently  misconstrues  the  fact  of  Protestant 
(gharities  seeming  lo  be  fewer  than  Catholic.  She  forgets, 
or  does  not  know,  that  Protestantism  ia  a  quieter  creed  than 
Komanism ;  as  it  does  not  clothe  its  priesthood  in  scarlet,  so 
neither  does  it  set  up  its  good  women  for  saints,  canonize 


REMARKS   ON    "  THE   SCHOOL   FOR   FATHERS."        205 

their  names,  and  proclaim  their  good  works.  In  the  icccrds 
of  man,  their  almsgiving  will  not  perhaps  be  found  registered, 
but  Heaven  has  its  account  as  well  as  earth. 

"  With  kind  regards  to  yourself  and  family,  who,  I  trust 
have  all  safely  weathered  the  rough  winter  lately  past,  as 
well  as  the  east  winds,  which  are  still  nipping  our  spring  in 
Yorkshire, —  I  am,  my  dear  Sir,  yours  sincerely, 

"  0.  Bronte." 

*  April  3rd,  1852, 
'^  My  dear  Sir, — The  box  arrived  quite  safel J,  and  I  rory 
much  thank  you  for  the   contents,  which  are  most  kindly 
selected. 

"  As  you  wished  me  to  say  what  I  thought  of  ^  The 
School  for  Fathers,'  I  hastened  to  read  it.  The  book  seems 
to  me  clever,  interesting,  very  amusing,  and  likely  to  please 
generally.  There  is  a  merit  in  the  choice  of  ground,  which 
is  not  yet  too  hackneyed ;  the  comparative  freshness  of  sub- 
ject, character,  and  epoch  give  the  tale  a  certain  attractive 
ness.  There  is  also,  I  think,  a  graphic  rendering  of 
situations,  and  a  lively  talent  for  describing  whatever  is 
visible  and  tangible — what  the  eye  meets  on  the  surface  of 
things.  The  humour  appears  to  me  such  as  would  answer 
well  on  the  stage ;  most  of  the  scenes  seem  to  demand  dra- 
matic accessories  to  give  them  their  full  effect.  But  I  think 
one  cannot  with  justice  bestow  higher  praise  than  this.  To 
speak  candidly,  I  felt,  in  reading  the  tale,  a  wondrous 
hollowness  in  the  moral  and  sentiment ;  a  strange  dillettante 
shallowness  in  the  purpose  and  feeling.  After  all,  ^  Jack '  is 
not  much  better  than  a  'Tony  Lumpkin,'  and  there  is  no 
very  great  breadth  of  choice  between  the  clown  he  is  and 
the  fop  his  father  would  have  made  him.  The  grossly 
material  life  of  the  old  English  fox-hunt  or,  and  the  frivolous 
existence  of  the  fine  gentleman  present  extremes  each  in  its 


206"  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BPwONtS. 

way  so  repugnant,  that  one  feels  half  inclined  to  smile  when 
called  upon  to  sentimentalize  over  the  lot  of  a  youth  forced 
to  pass  from  one  to  the  other ;  torn  from  the  stables,  to  be 
ushered  perhaps  into  the  ball-room.  Jack  dies  mournfully 
indeed,  and  you  are  sorry  for  the  poor  fellow's  untimely  end ; 
but  you  cannot  forget  that,  if  he  had  not  been  thrust  into 
the  way  of  Colonel  Penruddock's  weapon,  he  rcight  possibly 
have  broken  his  neck  in  a  fox-hunt.  The  character  of  Sir 
Thomas  Warren  is  excellent ;  consistent  throughout.  That 
of  Mr.  Addison  not  "Isad,  but  sketchy,  a  mere  outline — want- 
ing colour  and  finish.  The  man's  portrait  is  there,  and  his 
costume,  and  fragmentary  anecdotes  of  his  life ;  ^ut  where  is 
the  man's  nature — soul  and  self?  I  say  nothing  about  the 
female  characters — ^not  one  word ;  only  that  Lydia  seems  to 
me  like  a  pretty  little  actress,  prettily  dressed,  gracefully 
appearing  and  disappearing,  and  reappearing  in  a  genteel 
comedy,  assuming  the  proper  sentiments  of  her  part  with  all 
due  tact  and  naivete,  and — that  is  all. 

"  Your  description  of  the  model  man  of  business  is  true 
enough,  I  doubt  not ;  but  we  will  not  fear  that  society  will 
ever  be  brought  quite  to  this  standard ;  human  nature  (bad 
as  it  is)  has,  after  all,  elements  that  forbid  it.  But  the  very 
tendency  to  such  a  consummation — the  marked  tendency,  I 
fear,  of  the  day — produces,  no  doubt,  cruel  suffering.  Yet, 
when  the  evil  of  competition  passes  a  certain  limit,  must  it 
not  in  time  work  its  own  cure  ?  I  suppose  it  will,  but  then 
through  some  convulsed  crisis,  shattering  all  around  it  like 
an  earthquake.  Meantime,  for  how  many  is  life  made  a 
struggle;  enjoyment  and  rest  curtailed;  labour  terribly  en- 
hanced beyond  almost  what  nature  can  bear  !  I  often  think 
that  this  world  would  be  the  most  terrible  of  enigmas,  were 
it  not  for  the  firm  belief  that  there  is  a  world  to  come,  where 
conscientious  effort  and  patient  pain  will  meet  their  reward. 
"Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir,  sincerely  yours, 

''  0.  Bronte." 


EETIiOSPECT   OF   A   DREAKY   WINTER.  207 

A  letter  to  her  old  Brussels  schoolfellow  gives  a  short 
retrospect  of  the  dreary  "winter  she  had  passed  through. 

"Haworth,  April  12th,  1852. 

"  ....  I  struggled  through  the  winter,  and  the  earlj 
part  of  the  spring,  often  with  great  difficulty.  My  friend 
stayed  with  me  a  few  days  in  the  early  part  of  January ;  she 
could  not  be  spared  longer.  I  was  better  during  her  visit, 
but  had  a  relapse  soon  after  she  left  me,  which  reduced  my 
strength  very  much.  It  cannot  be  deniecl  that  the  solitude 
of  my  position  fearfully  aggravated  its  other  evils.  Some 
long  stormy  days  and  nights  there  were,  when  I  felt  such  a 
craving  for  support  and  companionship  as  I  cannot  express. 
Sleepless,  I  lay  awake  night  after  night,  weak  and  unable  to 
occupy  myself.  I  sat  in  my  chair  day  after  day,  the  saddest 
memories  my  only  company.  It  was  a  time  I  shall  never 
forget ;  but  God  sent  it,  and  it  must  have  been  for  the  best. 

"  I  am  better  now ;  and  very  grateful  do  I  feel  for  the 
restoration  of  tolerable  health ;  but,  as  if  there  was  always 
to  be  some  affliction,  papa,  who  enjoyed  wonderful  health 
during  the  whole  winter,  is  ailing  with  his  spring  attack  of 
bronchitis.  I  earnestly  trust  it  may  pass  over  in  the  com- 
paratively ameliorated  form  in  which  it  has  hitherto  shown 
itself. 

"  Let  me  not  forget  to  answer  your  question  about  the 
cataract.  Tell  your  papa  that  my  father  was  seventy  at  the 
time  he  underwent  an  operation ;  he  was  most  reluctant  to 
try  the  experiment ;  could  not  believe  that,  at  his  age,  and 
with  his  want  of  robust  strength,  it  would  succeed.  I  was 
obliged  to  be  very  decided  in  the  matter,  and  to  act  entirely 
on  my  own  responsibility.  Nearly  six  years  have  now 
elapsed  since  the  cataract  was  extracted  (it  was  not  merely 
depressed) ;  he  has  never  once  during  that  time  regretted  the 
tep,  and  a  day  seldom  passes  that  he  does  not  express  grat- 


208  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BEONTE. 

itude  and  pleasure  at  the  restoration  of  tliat  inestimablo 
privilege  of  vision  whose  loss  he  once  knew." 

I  had  given  Miss  Bronte,  in  one  of  my  letters,  an  out- 
line of  the  story  on  which  I  was  then  engaged,  and  in  repl^ 
she  says : — 

"  The  sketch  you  give  of  your  work  (respecting  which  I 
am,  of  course,  dumb)  seems  to  me  very  noble ;  and  its  pur- 
pose may  be  as  useful  in  practical  result  as  it  is  high  and 
just  in  theoretical  tendency.  Such  a  book  may  restore  hope 
and  energy  to  many  who  thought  they  had  forfeited  their 
right  to  both ;  and  open  a  clear  course  for  honourable  effort 
to  some  who  deemed  that  they  and  all  honour  had  parted 
company  in  this  world. 

"  Yet  hear  my  protest ! 

"  Why  should  she  die  ?  Why  are  we  to  shut  up  the  book 
weeping  ? 

"  My  heart  fails  me  already  at  the  thought  of  the  pang  it 
will  have  to  undergo.  And  yet  you  must  follow  the  impulse 
of  your  own  inspiration.  If  that  commands  the  slaying  of 
the  victim,  no  bystander  has  a  right  to  put  out  his  hand  to 
stay  the  sacrificial  knife  :  but  I  hold  you  a  stern  priestess  in 
these  matters." 

As  the  milder  weather  came  on,  her  health  improved,  and 
her  power  of  writing  increased.  She  set  herself  with  redoubled 
vigour  to  the  work  before  her ;  and  denied  herself  pleasure 
for  the  purpose  of  steady  labour.  Hence  she  writes  to  her 
friend : — 

"May  nth. 

"  Dear   E , — I   must   adhere   to  my   resolution   of 

neither   visiting  nor   being   visited  at   present.     Stay   you 
quietly  at  13.,  till  you  go  to  S.,  as  I  shall  stay  at  Haworth 


LETTER   TO   A   FKIEND.  209 

fts  sincere  a  farewell  can  be  taken  with  the  heart  as  with  the 
lips,  and  perhaps  less  painful.  I  am  glad  the  weather  ia 
changed ;  the  return  of  the  southwest  wind  suits  me ;  but  I 
hope  you  have  no  cause  to  regret  the  departure  of  your  fa- 
vourite east  wind.  What  you  say  about does  not  sur- 
prise me ;  I  have  had  many  little  notes  (whereof  I  answer 
about  one  in  three)  breathing  the  same  spirit, — self  and  child 
the  sole  all-absorbing  topics,  on  which  the  changes  are  rung 
even  to  weariness.  But  I  suppose  one  must  not  heed  it,  or 
think  the  case  singular.  Nor,  I  am  afraid,  must  one  expect 
her  to  improve.  I  read  in  a  French  book  lately,  a  sentence 
to  this  effect,  that  ^  marriage  might  be  defined  as  the  state  of 
two-fold  selfishness.'  Let  the  single  therefore  take  comfort. 
Thank  you  for  Mary's  letter.  She  does  seem  most  happy ; 
and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  more  real,  lasting,  and  bet- 
ter-warranted her  happiness  seems  than  ever 's  did.     I 

think  so  much  of  it  is  in  herself,  and  her  own  serene,  pure, 

trusting,  religious  nature.    's  always  gives  me  the  idea  of 

a  vacillating,  unsteady  rapture,  entirely  dependent  on  circum- 
stances with  all  their  fluctuations.  If  Mary  lives  to  be  a 
mother,  you  will  then  see  a  greater  difference. 

"  I  wish  you,  dear  E.,  all  health  and  enjoyment  in  your 
visit ;  and,  as  far  as  one  can  judge  at  present,  there  seems  a 
fair  prospect  of  the  wish  being  realised. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"0.  Bkonte." 


210  LIFE   OF   CHAKT.OTTE   BRONTE. 


ClIAPTEE    XI 

The  reader  will  remember  that  Anne  Bronte  liad  been  in- 
terred in  the  churchyard  of  the  Old  Church  at  Scarborough. 
Charlotte  had  left  directions  for  a  tombstone  to  be  placed 
over  her ;  but  many  a  time  during  the  solitude  of  the  past 
winter,  her  sad,  anxious  thoughts  had  revisited  the  scene  of 
that  last  great  sorrow,  and  she  had  wondered  whether  all  de- 
cent services  had  been  rendered  to  the  memory  of  the  dead, 
until  at  last,  she  came  to  a  silent  resolution  to  go  and  see  for 
herself  whether  the  stone  and  inscription  were  in  a  satisfactory 
state  of  preservation. 

"Cliffe  House,  Filey,  June  6tli,  1852. 

*'  Dear  E ,  — I  am  at  Filey  utterly  alone.    Do  not  be 

angry,  the  step  is  right  I  considered  it,  and  resolved  on  it  with 
due  deliberation.  Change  of  air  was  necessary  ;  there  were 
reasons  why  I  should  not  go  to  the  south,  and  why  I  should 
come  here.  On  Friday  I  went  to  Scarborough,  visited  the 
churchyard  and  stone.  It  must  be  refaced  and  relettered ; 
there  are  five  erro^-s.  I  gave  the  necessary  directions.  That 
duty,  then,  is  done ;  long  has  it  lain  heavy  on  my  mind ;  and 
that  was  a  pilgrimage  I  felt  I  could  only  make  alone. 

^*  I  am  in  our  old  lodgings  at  Mrs.  Smith's  ;  not,  however, 
in  the  same  rooms,  but  in  less  expensive  apartments.     They 


SCARBOROUGH   REVISITED.  211 

seemed  glad  to  see  me,  remembered  you  and  me  very  well 
and,  seemingly,  with  great  good  will.  The  daughter  who 
used  to  wait  on  us  is  just  married.  Filey  seems  tome  much 
altered ;  more  lodging-houses — some  of  them  very  handsome 
— have  been  built ;  the  sea  has  all  its  old  grandeur.  I  walk 
on  the  sands  a  good  deal,  and  try  not  to  feel  desolate  and 
melancholy.  How  sorely  my  heart  longs  for  you,  I  need  not 
Bay.  I  have  bathed  once ;  it  seemed  to  do  me  good.  I  may, 
perhaps,  stay  here  a  fortnight.  There  are  as  yet  scarcely 
any  visitors.  A  Lady  Wenlock  is  staying  at  the  large  house 
of  which  you  used  so  vigilantly  to  observe  the  inmates.  One 
day  I  set  out  with  intent  to  trudge  to  Filey  Bridge,  but 
was  frightened  back  by  two  cows.  I  mean  to  try  again  some 
morning.  I  left  papa  well.  I  have  been  a  good  deal  troubled 
with  headache,  and  with  some  pain  in  the  side  since  I  came 
here,  but  I  feel  that  this  has  been  owing  to  the  cold  wind, 
for  very  cold  has  it  been  till  lately ;  at  present  I  feel  better. 
Shall  I  send  the  papers  to  you  as  usual  ?  "Write  again  di- 
rectly, and  tell  me  this,  and  anything  and  everything  else 
that  comes  into  your  mind. 

*^  Believe  me,  yours  faithfully, 
"C.  Broote." 

"Filey,  June  16th,  1852. 

"  Dear  E ,  — Be  quite  easy  about  me.    I  really  think 

£  am  better  for  my  stay  at  Filey ;  that  I  have  derived  more 
benefit  from  it  than  I  dared  to  anticipate.  I  believe,  could  I 
stay  here  two  months,  and  enjoy  something  like  social  cheer- 
fulness as  well  as  exercise  and  good  air,  my  health  would  be 
quite  renewed.  This,  however,  cannot  possibly  be ;  but  I 
am  most  thankful  for  the  good  received.  I  stay  here  another 
week. 

"  I  return 's  letter.     I  am  sorry  for  her :  I  believe 

fehe  sufi'ers ;  but  I  do  not  much  like  her  style  of  expressing 


212  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

herself.  ....  Grief  as  well  as  joy  manifests  itself  in  most 
different  ways  in  different  people ;  and  I  doubt  not  she  is 
sincere  and  in  earnest  when  she  talks  of  her  *  precious,  sainted 
father ;  '  but  I  could  wish  she  used  simpler  language." 

Soon  after  her  return  from  Filey  she  was  alarmed  by 
a  very  serious  and  sharp  attack  of  illness  with  which  Mr. 
E  route  was  seized.  There  was  some  fear,  for  a  few  days, 
that  his  sight  was  permanently  lost  and  his  spirits  sank  pain- 
fully under  this  dread. 

'^  This  prostration  of  spirits,"  writes  his  daughter,  "  whicli 
accompanies  anything  like  a  relapse  is  almost  the  most  diffi- 
cult point  to  manage.    Dear  E ,  you  are  tenderly  kind  in 

offering  your  society ;  but  rest  very  tranquil  where  you  are ; 
be  fully  assured  that  it  is  not  now,  nor  under  present  circum- 
stances, that  I  feel  the  lack  either  of  society  or  occupation ; 
my  time  is  pretty  well  filled  up,  and  my  thoughts  appropri- 
ated  I  cannot  permit  myself  to  comment  much  on  the 

chief  contents  of  your  last ;  advice  is  not  necessary :  as  far 
as  I  can  judge,  you  seem  hitherto  enabled  to  take  these  trials 
in  a  good  and  wise  spirit.  I  can  only  pray  that  such  com- 
bined strength  and  resignation  may  be  continued  to  you. 
Submission,  courage,  exertion,  when  practicable, — these  seem 
to  be  the  weapons  with  which  we  must  fight  life's  loDg  bat- 
tle." 

I  suppose  that,  during  the  very  time  when  her  thoughts 
were  thus  fully  occupied  with  anxiety  for  her  father,  she  re- 
ceived some  letter  from  her  publishers,  making  inquiry  as  to 
the  progress  of  the  work  which  they  knew  she  had  in  hand, 
as  I  find  the  followiug  letter  to  Mr.  Williams,  bearing  refer- 
ence to  some  of  Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder's  proposed  arrango 
inentd 


'  SHIELEY."  213 

"  TO   W.    S.  WILLIAMS,    ESQ. 

*^  July  28th,  1852. 

"  My  dear  Sir, — Is  it  in  contemplation  to  publish  the 
new  edition  of  ^  Shirley  '  soon  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  to 
defer  it  for  a  time  ?  In  reference  to  a  part  of  your  letter, 
permit  me  to  express  this  wish, — and  I  trust  in  doing  so,  I 
shall  not  be  regarded  as  stepping  out  of  my  position  as  an  au- 
thor, and  encroaching  on  the  arrangements  of  business, — 
viz. :  that  no  announcement  of  a  new  work  by  the  author  of 
*  Jane  Eyre '  shall  be  made  till  the  MS.  of  such  work  is  ac- 
tually in  my  publisher's  hands.  Perhaps  we  are  none  of  us 
justified  in  speaking  very  decidedly  where  the  future  is  con- 
cerned ;  but  for  some  too  much  caution  in  such  calculations 
can  scarcely  be  observed  :  amongst  this  number  I  must  class 
myself  Nor,  in  doing  so,  can  I  assume  an  apologetic  tone. 
He  does  right  who  does  his  best. 

*'  Last  autumn  I  got  on  for  a  time  quickly.  I  ventured 
to  look  forward  to  spring  as  the  period  of  publication :  my 
health  gave  way ;  I  passed  such  a  winter  as,  having  been 
once  experienced,  will  never  be  forgotten.  The  spring  proved 
little  better  than  a  protraction  of  trial.  The  warm  weather 
and  a  visit  to  the  sea  have  done  me  much  good  physically ; 
but  as  yet  I  have  recovered  neither  elasticity  of  animal  spii- 
its,  nor  flow  of  the  power  of  composition.  And  if  it  were 
otherwise,  the  difference  would  be  of  no  avail ;  my  time  and 
thoughts  are  at  present  taken  up  with  close  attendance  on 
my  father,  whose  health  is  just  now  in  a  very  critical  state, 
the  heat  of  the  weather  having  produced  determination  of 
blood  to  the  head. 

"  I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

'^C.  Bronte." 

Before  the  end  of  August,  Mr.  Bronte's  convalescenco 


214  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONtS. 

became  quite  established,  and  he  was  anxious  to  resume  his 
duties  for  some  time  before  his  careful  daughter  would  per 
mit  him. 

On  September  the  14th  the  "  great  duke  "  died.  He  had 
been,  as  we  have  seen,  her  hero  from  childhood ;  but  I  find 
no  further  reference  to  him  at  this  time  than  what  is  g^ven  in 
the  following  extract  from  a  letter  to  her  friend : — 

"  I  do  hope  and  believe  the  changes  you  have  been  having 
this  summer  will  do  you  permanent  good,  notwithstanding 
the  pain  with  which  they  have  been  too  often  mingled.  Yet 
I  feel  glad  that  you  are  soon  coming  home ;  and  I  really 
must  not  trust  myself  to  say  how  much  I  wish  the  time  were 
come  when,  without  let  or  hindrance,  I  could  once  more  wel- 
come you  to  Haworth.  But  oh  I  I  don't  get  on ;  I  feel  fret- 
ted— incapable-— sometimes  very  low.  However,  at  present, 
the  subject  must  not  be  dwelt  upon;  it  presses  me  too  hardly 
— nearly^ — and  painfully.  Less  than  ever  can  I  taste  oi 
know  pleasure  till  this  work  is  wound  up.  And  yet  I  often 
sit  up  in  bed  at  night,  thinking  of  and  wishing  for  you. 
Thank  you  for  the  *  Times  ' ;  what  it  said  on  the  mighty  and 
mournful  subject  was  well  said.  All  at  once  the  whole  na- 
tion seems  to  take  a  just  view  of  that  great  character.  There 
was  a  review  too  of  an  American  book,  which  I  was  glad  to 
see.  Eead  *  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin':  probably,  though,  you 
have  read  it. 

"  Papa's  health  continues  satisflictory,  thank  God  !  As 
for  me,  my  wretched  liver  has  been  disordered  again  of  late, 
but  I  hope  it  is  now  going  to  be  on  better  behaviour  ;  it  hin- 
ders me  in  working — depresses  both  power  and  tone  of  feel- 
ing.    I  must  expect  this  derangement  from  time  to  time." 

Ilaworth  was  in  an  unhealthy  state,  as  usual ;  and  both 
l^Iiss  Bronte  and  Tabby  suffered  severely  from  the  prevailing 


SADNESS   AND   SOLITUDE.  215 

epidemics.  The  former  was  long  in  shaking  off  the  effects  of 
this  illness.  In  vain  she  resolved  against  allowing  herself 
any  society  or  change  of  scene  until  she  had  accomplished 
her  labour.  She  was  too  ill  to  write ;  and  with  illness  came  on 
the  old  heaviness  of  heart,  recollections  of  the  past,  and  antici- 
pations of  the  future.  At  last  Mr.  Bronte  expressed  so  strong 
a  wish  that  her  friend  should  be  asked  to  visit  her,  and  she 
felt  some  little  refreshment  so  absolutely  necessary,  that  on 
October  the  9th  she  begged  her  to  come  to  Haworth,  just 
for  a  single  week. 

"  I  thought  I  would  persist  in  denying  myself  till  I  had 
done  my  work,  but  I  find  it  won't  do  ;  the  matter  refuses  to 
progress,  and  this  excessive  solitude  presses  too  heavily ;  so 
let  me  see  your  dear  face,  E.,  just  for  one  reviving  week.'' 

But  she  would  only  accept  of  the  company  of  her  friend 
for  the  exact  time  specified.  She  thus  writes  to  Miss  Wooler 
on  October  the  21st : — 

<«  E has  only  been  my  companion  one  little  week.    I 

would  not  have  her  any  longer,  for  I  am  disgusted  with  my- 
self and  my  delays ;  and  consider  it  was  a  weak  yielding  to 
temptation  in  me  to  send  for  her  at  all ;  but  in  truth,  my 
spirits  were  getting  low — ^prostrate  sometimes — and  she  has 
done  me  inexpressible  good.  I  wonder  when  I  shall  see  you 
at  Haworth  again ;  both  my  father  and  the  servants  have 
again  and  again  insinuated  a  distinct  wish  that  you  should  be 
requested  to  come  in  the  course  of  the  summer  and  autumn, 
but  I  have  always  turned  rather  a  deaf  ear ;  '  not  yet,'  was 
my  thought,'  '  I  want  first  to  be  free ; '  work  first,  then  plea- 
sure." 

Miss 's  visit  had  done  her  much  good.     Pleasant 


216  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

companionship  during  the  day  produced,  for  the  time,  the 
unusual  blessing  of  calm  repose  at  night;  and,  after  her 
friend's  departure,  she  was  well  enough  to  "  fall  to  business," 
and  write  away,  almost  incessantly,  at  her  story  of  '^Yillette," 
now  drawing  to  a  conclusion.  The  following  letter  to  Mr. 
Smith,  seems  to  have  accompanied  the  first  part  of  the  MS. 

"Oct.  30th,  1852. 
"  My  dear  Sir, — You  must  notify  honestly  what  you  think 
of  ^  Yillette  '  when  you  have  read  it.  I  can  hardly  tell  you 
how  I  hunger  to  hear  some  opinion  besides  my  own,  and  how 
I  have  sometimes  desponded,  and  almost  despaired,  because 
there  was  no  one  to  whom  to  read  a  line,  or  of  whom  to  ask 
a  counsel.  *  Jane  Eyre  '  was  not  written  under  such  circum- 
stances, nor  were  two-thirds  of  ^  Shirley.'  I  got  so  miserable 
about  it,  I  could  bear  no  allusion  to  the  book.  It  is  not  fin- 
ished yet ;  but  now  I  hope.  As  to  the  anonymous  publica- 
tion, I  have  this  to  say  :  If  the  withholding  of  the  author's 
name  should  tend  materially  to  injure  the  publisher's  interest, 
to  interfere  with  booksellers'  orders,  &c.,  I  would  not  press 
the  point ;  but  if  no  such  detriment  is  contingent,  I  should 
be  most  thankful  for  the  sheltering  shadow  of  an  incog- 
nito. I  seem  to  dread  the  advertisements — the  large-let- 
tered ^  Currer  Bell's  New  Novel,'  or  ^  New  Work,  by  the 
Author  of  Jane  Eyre.'  These,  however,  I  feel  well  enough, 
ire  the  transcendentalisms  of  a  retired  wretch ;  so  you  must 

speak  frankly I  shall  be  glad  to  see  ^  Colonel  Esmond.' 

My  objection  to  the  second  volume  lay  here  :  I  thought  it 
contained  decidedly  too  much  history — too  little  story." 

In  another  letter,  referring  to  "  Esmond,"  she  uses  the 
following  words : — 

^'  The  third  volume  seemed   to  me  to  possess  the  most 
parkle,  impetus,  and  interest.     Of  the  first  and  second  my 


LETTEK   TO   MK.    SMITH.  217 

judgment  was,  that  parts  of  them  were  admirable;  but  there 
was  the  fault  of  containing  too  much  History — too  little 
Story.  I  hold  that  a  work  of  fiction  ought  to  be  a  work  of 
creation ;  that  the  real  should  be  sparingly  introduced  in 
pages  dedicated  to  the  ideal.  Plain  household  bread  is  a  far 
more  wholesome  and  necessary  thing  than  cake ;  yet  who 
would  like  to  see  the  brown  loaf  placed  on  the  table  for 
dessert?  In  the  second  volume,  the  author  gives  us  an 
ample  supply  of  excellent  brown  bread ;  in  his  third,  only 
such  a  portion  as  gives  substance,  like  the  crumbs  of  bread 
in  a  well-made,  not  too  rich,  plum-pudding." 

Her  letter  to  Mr.  Smith,  containing  the  allusion  to 
"  Esmond,"  which  reminded  me  of  the  quotation  just  given, 
continues : — 

"  You  will  see  that  '  Villette'  touches  on  no  matter  of 
public  interest.  I  cannot  write  books  handling  the  topics  of 
the  day ;  it  is  of  no  use  trying.  Nor  can  I  write  a  book  for 
its  moral.  Nor  can  I  take  up  a  philanthropic  scheme, 
though  I  honour  philanthropy ;  and  voluntarily  and  sincerely 
veil  my  face  before  such  a  mighty  subject  as  that  handled  in 
Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe  s  work,  ^  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.'  To 
manage  these  great  matters  rightly,  they  must  be  long  and 
practically  studied — their  bearings  known  intimately,  and 
their  evils  felt  genuinely ;  they  must  not  be  taken  up  as  a 
business  matter,  and  a  trading  speculation.  I  doubt  not 
Mrs.  Stowe  had  felt  the  iron  of  slavery  enter  into  her  heart 
from  childhood  upwards,  long  before  she  ever  thought  of 
writing  books.  The  feeling  throughout  her  work  is  sincere 
and  not  got  up.  Remember  to  be  an  honest  critic  of  ^  ViL 
lette,'  and  tell  Mr.  Williams  to  be  unsparing :  not  that  I  am 
likely  to  alter  anything,  but  I  want  to  know  his  impressions 
and  yours." 

VOL     II.— 10 


218  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

TO  G.   SMITH,  ESQ. 

*' Nov.  3rd. 

*'  My  dear  Sir, — I  feel  very  grateful  for  your  letter  ;  it 
relieyed  me  much,  for  I  was  a  good  deal  harassed  by  doubts 
as  to  how  ^  Yillette'  might  appear  in  other  eyes  than  my  own. 
I  feel  in  some  degree  authorised  to  rely  on  your  favourable 
impressions,  because  you  are  quite  right  where  you  hint  dis- 
approbation. You  have  exactly  hit  two  points  at  least 
where  I  was  conscious  of  defect; — the  discrepancy,  the  want 
of  perfect  harmony,  between  Graham's  boyhood  and  man- 
hood,— the  angular  abruptness  of  his  change  of  sentiment 
towards  Miss  Fanshawe.  You  must  remember,  though,  that 
in  secret  he  had  for  some  time  appreciated  that  young  lady 
at  a  somewhat  depressed  standard — held  her  a  little  lower 
than  the  angels.  But  still  the  reader  ought  to  have  been 
better  made  to  feel  this  preparation  towards  a  change  of 
mood.  As  to  the  publishing  arrangements,  I  leave  them  to 
Cornhill.  There  is,  undoubtedly,  a  certain  force  in  what  you 
say  about  the  inexpediency  of  affecting  a  mystery  which  can- 
not be  sustained ;  so  you  must  act  as  you  think  is  for  the 
best.  I  submit,  also,  to  the  advertisements  in  large  letters, 
but  under  protest,  and  with  a  kind  of  ostrich-longing  for 
concealment.  Most  of  the  third  volume  is  given  to  the  de- 
velopment of  the  ^  crabbed  Professor's'  character.  Lucy 
must  not  marry  Dr.  John ;  he  is  far  too  youthful,  handsome, 
bright-spirited,  and  sweet-tempered ;  he  is  a  ^  curled  darling' 
of  Nature  and  of  Fortune,  and  must  draw  a  prize  in  life's 
lottery.  His  wife  must  be  young,  rich,  pretty ;  he  must  be 
made  very  happy  indeed.  If  Lucy  marries  anybody,  it  must 
be  the  Professor — a  man  in  whom  there  is  much  to  forgive, 
much  to  '  put  up  with.'  But  I  am  not  leniently  disposed  to- 
wards Miss  Frost:  from  the  beginning,  I  never  meant  to 
appoint  her  lines  in  pleasant  places.  The  conclusion  of  this 
third  volume  is  still  a  matter  of  some  anxiety :  I  can  but  do 


A   LETTER   ABOUT    "VILLETTE."  219 

mj  best,  however.  Ifc  would  speedily  be  finished,  could  I 
ward  off  certain  obnoxious  headaches,  which,  whenever  I  get 
into  the  spirit  of  my  work,  are  apt  to  seize  and  prostrate 

me 

"  Colonel  Henry  Esmond  is  just  arrived.  He  looks 
very  antique  and  distinguished  in  his  Queen  Anne's  garb; 
the  periwig,  sword,  lace,  and  ruffles  are  very  well  represented 
by  the  old  '  Spectator'  type." 

In  reference  to  a  sentence  towards  the  close  of  this  let 
ter,  I  may  mention  what  she  told  me ;  that  Mr.  Bronte  was 
anxious  that  her  new  tale  should  end  well,  as  he  disliked 
novels  which  left  a  melancholy  impression  upon  the  mind ; 
and  he  requested  her  to  make  her  hero  and  heroine  (like  the 
heroes  and  heroines  in  fairy-tales)  "  marry,  and  live  very 
happily  ever  after."  But  the  idea  of  M.  Paul  Emanuel's 
death  at  sea  was  stamped  on  her  imagination  till  it  assumed 
the  distinct  force  of  reality;  and  she  could  no  more  alter  her 
fictitious  ending  than  if  they  had  been  facts  which  she  was 
relating.  All  she  could  do  in  compliance  with  her  father's 
wish  was  so  to  veil  the  fate  in  oracular  words,  as  to  leave  it 
to  the  character  and  discernment  of  her  readers  to  interpret 
her  meaning. 

TC   W.  S.  WILLIAMS,  ESQ. 

"Nov.  6th,  1852. 
"  My  dear  Sir, — I  must  not  delay  thanking  you  for  your 
kind  letter,  with  its  candid  and  able  commentary  on  ^  Vil- 
lette.'  With  many  of  your  strictures  I  concur.  The  third 
volume  may,  perhaps,  do  away  with  some  of  the  objections; 
others  still  remain  in  force.  I  do  not  think  the  interest 
culminates  anywhere  to  the  degree  you  would  wish.  What 
climax  there  is  does  not  come  on  till  near  the  conclusion ; 
and  even  then,  T  doubt  whether  the  regular  novel-reader  will 


220  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

consider  the  ^  agony  piled  sufficiently  high'  (as  the  Americana 
say),  or  the  colours  dashed  on  to  the  canvass  with  the  proper 
amount  of  daring.  Still,  I  fear,  they  must  be  satisfied  with 
what  is  offered :  my  palette  affords  no  brighter  tints ;  were  I 
to  attempt  to  deepen  the  reds,  or  burnish  the  yellows,  I 
should  but  botch. 

"  Unless  I  am  mistaken,  the  emotion  of  the  book  will  be 
found  to  be  kept  throughout  in  tolerable  subjection.  As  to 
the  name  of  the  heroine,  I  can  hardly  express  what  subtlety 
of  thought  made  me  decide  upon  giving  her  a  cold  name ; 
but,  at  first,  I  called  her  ^  Lucy  Snowe  '  (spelt  with  an  ^  e ') ; 
which  Snowe  I  afterwards  changed  to  ^  Frost.'  Subsequent- 
ly, I  rather  regretted  the  change,  and  wished  it  ^  Snowe  ' 
again.  If  not  too  late,  I  should  like  the  alteration  to  be 
made  now  throughout  the  MS.  A  cold  name  she  must  have ; 
partly,  perhaps,  on  the  ^  luciis  a  non  lucendo '  principle — 
partly  on  that  of  the  *  fitness  of  things,'  for  she  has  about 
her  an  external  coldness. 

"  You  say  that  she  may  be  thought  morbid  and  weak, 
unless  the  history  of  her  life  be  more  fully  given.  I  con- 
sider that  she  is  both  morbid  and  weak  at  times  ;  her  charac- 
ter sets  up  no  pretensions  to  unmixed  strength,  and  anybody 
living  her  life  would  necessarily  become  morbid.  It  was  no 
impetus  of  healthy  feeling  which  urged  her  to  the  confes- 
sional, for  instance  ;  it  was  the  semi-delirium  of  solitary 
grief  and  sickness.  If,  however,  the  book  does  not  express 
all  this,  there  must  be  a  great  fault  somewhere.  I  might 
explain  away  a  few  other  points,  but  it  would  be  too  much 
like  drawing  a  picture  and  then  writing  underneath  the  name 
of  the  object  intended  to  be  represented.  We  know  what 
sort  of  a  pencil  that  is  which  needs  an  ally  in  the  pen. 

'^  Thanking  you  again  for  the  clearness  and  fulness  with 
which  you  have  responded  to  my  request  for  a  statement  of 
impressions,  I  am,  my  dear  Sir,  yours  very  sincerely, 

^'C.  BkontIj. 


MORE   REMARKS   ON    "ESMOND.''  221 

"  I  trust  the  work  will  Ibe  seen  in  MS.  by  no  one  except 
Jlr.  Smith  and  yourself." 

"  Nov.  lOth,  1852. 
^^  My  dear  Sir, — I  only  wished  the  publication  of  '  Shir- 
ley '  to  be  delayed  till  ^  Villette  '  was  nearly  ready  ;  so  that 
there  can  now  be  no  objection  to  its  being  issued  whenever 
you  think  fit.  About  putting  the  MS.  into  type,  I  can  only 
say  that,  should  I  be  able  to  proceed  with  the  third  volume 
at  my  average  rate  of  composition,  and  with  no  more  than 
the  average  amount  of  interruptions,  I  should  hope  to  have 
it  ready  in  about  three  weeks.  I  leave  it  to  you  to  decide 
whether  it  would  be  better  to  delay  the  printing  that  space 
of  time,  or  to  commence  it  immediately.  It  would  certainly 
be  more  satisfactory  if  you  were  to  see  the  third  volume  be- 
fore printing  the  first  and  the  second ;  yet,  if  delay  is  likely 
to  prove  injurious,  I  do  not  think  it  is  indispensable.  I 
have  read  the  third  volume  of  ^  Esmond.'  I  found  it  both 
entertaining  and  exciting  to  me ;  it  seems  to  possess  an  im- 
petus and  excitement  beyond  the  other  two, — that  movement 
and  brilliancy  its  predecessors  sometimes  wanted,  never  fails 
here.  In  certain  passages,  I  thought  Thackeray  used  all  his 
powers  ;  their  grand,  serious  force  yielded  a  profound  satis- 
faction. *  At  last  he  puts  forth  his  strength,'  I  could  not 
help  saying  to  myself.  No  character  in  the  book  strikes  me 
as  more  masterly  than  that  of  Beatrix ;  its  conception  is 
fresh,  and  its  delineation  vivid.  It  is  peculiar ;  it  has  im- 
pressions of  a  new  kind — ^new,  at  least,  to  me.  Beatrix 
is  not,  in  herself,  all  bad.  So  much  does  she  sometimes  re- 
veal of  what  is  good  and  great  as  to  suggest  this  feeling — 
you  would  think  she  was  urged  by  a  fate.  You  would  think 
that  some  antique  doom  presses  on  her  house,  and  that  once 
in  so  many  generations  its  brightest  ornament  was  to  be- 
come its  greatest  disgrace.     At  times,  what  is  good  in  her 


222  LIFE   OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

struggles  against  this  terrible  destiny,  but  the  Fate  conquers 
Beatrix  cannot  be  an  lionest  woman  and  a  good  man's  wife. 
She  '  tries,  and  she  cannoV  Proud,  beautiful,  and  sullied, 
she  was  born  what  she  becomes,  a  king's  mistress.  I  know 
not  whether  you  have  seen  the  notice  in  the  ^  Leader ; '  I 
read  it  just  after  concluding  the  book.  Can  I  be  wrong  in 
deeming  it  a  notice  tame,  cold,  and  insufficient  ?  With  all 
its  professed  friendliness,  it  produced  on  me  a  most  disheart- 
ening impression.  Surely,  another  sort  of  justice  than  this 
will  be  rendered  to  ^Esmond'  from  other  quarters.  One 
acute  remark  of  the  critic  is  to  the  effect  that  Blanche 
Amory  and  Beatrix  are  identical — sketched  from  the  same 
original !  To  me  they  are  about  as  identical  as  a  weazel  and 
a  royal  tigress  of  Bengal — both  the  latter  are  quadrupeds, — 
both  the  former,  women.  But  I  must  not  take  up  either 
your  time  or  my  own  with  further  remarks.  Believe  me 
yours  sincerely, 

'^0.  Bronte." 

On  a  Saturday,  a  little  later  in  this  month.  Miss  Bronte 
completed  "  Villette,"  and  sent  it  off  to  her  publishers.  "  I 
said  my  prayers  when  I  had  done  it.  Whether  it  is  well  or 
ill  done,  I  don't  know ;  D.  V.,  I  will  now  try  and  wait  the 
issue  quietly.  The  book,  I  think,  will  not  be  considered 
pretentious ;  nor  is  it  of  a  character  to  excite  hostility." 

As  her  labour  was  ended,  she  felt  at  liberty  to  allow  her- 
self a  little  change.  There  were  several  friends  anxious  to 
see  her  and  welcome  her  to  their  homes :  Miss  Martin'eau, 

Mrs.  Smith,  and  her  own  faithful  E  — .     With  the  last, 

in  the  same  letter  as  that  in  which  she  announced  the  com- 
pletion of  "  Villette,"  she  offered  to  spend  a  week.  She  be- 
gan, also,  to  consider  whether  it  might  not  be  well  to  avail 
lierself  of  Mrs.  Smith's  kind  invitation,  with  a  view  to  the 
^Dnvenience  of  being  on  the  spot  to  correct  tho  proofs. 


INSTANCE    OF   EXTREME    SENSIBILITY.  223 

The  following  letter  is  given,  not  merely  on  account  of 
Iier  own  criticisms  on  "  Villette,"  but  because  it  shows  how 
she  had  learned  to  magnify  the  meaning  of  trifles,  as  all  do 
who  live  a  self-contained  and  solitary  life.  Mr.  Smith  had 
been  unable  to  write  by  the  same  post  as  that  which  brought 
the  money  for  "  Villette,''  and  she  consequently  received  it 
without  a  line.  The  friend  with  whom  she  was  staying  says^ 
that  she  immediately  fancied  there  was  some  disappointment 
about  "  Villette,"  or  that  some  word  or  act  cf  hers  had 
given  offence ;  and  had  not  the  Sunday  intervened,  and  so 
allowed  time  for  Mr.  Smith's  letter  to  make  its  appearance, 
she  would  certainly  have  crossed  it  on  her  way  to  London. 

"  Dec.  6tb,  1852. 
"  My  dear  Sir, — The  receipts  have  reached  me  safely.  I 
received  the  first  on  Saturday,  enclosed  in  a  cover  without  a 
line,  and  had  made  up  my  mind  to  take  the  train  on  Monday, 
and  go  up  to  London  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  and  what 
had  struck  my  publisher  mute.  On  Sunday  morning  your 
letter  came,  and  you  have  thus  been  spared  the  visitation  of 
the  unannounced  and  unsummoned  apparition  of  Currer  Bell 
in  Cornhill.  Inexplicable  delays  should  be  avoided  when 
possible,  for  they  are  apt  to  urge  those  subjected  to  their 
harassment  to  sudden  and  impulsive  steps.  I  must  pro- 
nounce you  right  again,  in  your  complaint  of  the  transfer  of  in- 
terest in  the  third  volume,  from  one  set  of  characters  to 
another.  It  is  not  pleasant,  and  it  will  probably  be  found 
as  unwelcome  to  the  reader,  as  it  was,  in  a  sense,  compulsory 
apon  the  writer.  The  spirit  of  romance  would  have  indicated 
another  course,  far  more  flowery  and  inviting ;  it  would  have 
fashioned  a  paramount  hero,  kept  faithfully  with  him,  and 
made  him  supremely  worshipful;  he  should  have  been  an 
idol,  and  not  a  mute,  unresponding  idol  either ;  but  this  would 
have  been  unlike  real  life — inconsistent  with  truth — at  va- 


224  LIFE    OF   CIIAKLOTTE   BKONTE. 

riance  witli  probability.  I  greatly  apprebend,  bowever,  tbal 
tbe  weakest  cbaracter  in  tbe  book  is  tbe  one  I  aimed  at  mak- 
ing the  most  beautiful ;  and,  if  tbis  be  tbe  case,  tbe  fault 
lies  in  its  wanting  tbe  germ  of  tbe  real — in  its  being  purel;y 
imaginary.  I  felt  tbat  tbis  cbaracter  lacked  substance ;  I 
fear  tbat  tbe  reader  will  feel  tbe  same.  Union  witb  it  re- 
Bembles  too  mucb  tbe  fate  of  Ixion,  wbo  was  mated  witb  a 
cloud.  Tbe  cbildbood  of  Paulina  is,  bowever,  I  tbink,  pretty 
well  imagined,  but  ber  .  .  .  .  "  (tbe  remainder  of  tbis  in- 
teresting sentence  is  torn  off  tbe  letter).  "  A  brief  visit  to 
London  becomes  tbus  more  practicable,  and  if  your  motber 
will  kindly  write,  wben  sbe  bas  time,  and  name  a  day  after 
Cbristmas  wbicb  will  suit  ber,  I  sball  bave  pleasure,  papa's 
bealtb  permitting,  in  availing  myself  of  her  invitation.  I 
wish  I  could  come  in  time  to  correct  some  at  least  of  tbe 
proofs ;  it  would  save  trouble." 


THE   BIOGKArnER's   DIFFICULTY.  225 


CHAPTEEXII. 

Tde  difficulty  tbat  presented  itself  most  stroDgl}^  to  me, 
when  I  first  liad  tlie  honour  of  being  requested  to  write  this 
biography,  was  how  I  could  show  what  a  noble,  true,  and 
tender  woman  Charlotte  Bronte  really  was,  without  mingling 
up  with  her  life  too  much  of  the  personal  history  of  her 
nearest  and  most  intimate  friends.  After  much  consideration 
of  this  point,  I  came  to  the  resolution  of  writing  truly,  if  I 
wrote  at  all ;  of  withholding  nothing,  though  some  things, 
from  their  ybyj  nature,  could  not  be  spoken  of  so  fully  as 
others. 

One  of  the  deepest  interests  of  her  life  centres  naturally 
round  her  marriage,  and  the  preceding  circumstances ;  b^at 
more  than  all  other  events  (because  of  more  recent  date,  and 
concerning  another  as  intimately  as  herself,  it  requires 
delicate  handling  oti  my  part,  lest  I  intrude  too  roughly  on 
what  is  most  sacred  to  memory.  Yet  I  have  two  reasons, 
which  seem  to  me  good  and  valid  ones,  for  giving  some  par- 
ticulars of  the  course  of  events  which  led  to  her  few  months 
of  wedded  life — that  short  spell  of  exceeding  happiness. 
The  first  is  my  desire  to  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Nicholls  was  one  who  had  seen  her  almost  daily  for  years ; 
seen  her  as  a  daughter,  a  sister,  a  mistress  and  a  friend.  He 
was  not  a  man  to  be  attracted  by  any  kind  of  literary  fame. 
I  imagine  that  this,  by  itself,  would  rather  repel  him  when 
he  saw  it  in  the  possession  of  a  woman.  He  was  a  grave, 
VOLe  IT. — IC^ 


226  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

reserved,  conscientious  man,  "with  a  deep  sense  of  religion^ 
and  of  his  duties  as  one  of  its  ministers. 

In  silence  he  had  watched  her,  and  loved  her  long.  The 
love  of  such  a  man — a  daily  spectator  of  her  manner  of  life 
for  years — is  a  great  testimony  to  her  character  as  a 
woman. 

How  deep  his  affection  was  I  scarcely  dare  to  tell,  even 
if  I  could  in  words.  She  did  not  know — she  had  hardly  be- 
gun to  suspect — that  she  was  the  object  of  any  peculiar  re- 
gard on  his  part,  when,  in  this  very  December,  he  came  one 
evening  to  tea.  After  tea,  she  returned  from  the  study  to 
her  own  sitting-room,  as  was  her  custom,  leaving  her  father 
and  his  curate  together.  Presently  she  heard  the  study-door 
open,  and  expected  to  hear  the  succeeding  clash  of  the  front 
door.  Instead,  came  a  tap  ;  and,  "  like  lightning,  it  flashed 
upon  me  what  was  coming.  He  entered.  He  stood  before 
me.  What  his  words  were  you  can  imagine ;  his  manner 
you  can  hardly  realise,  nor  can  I  forget  it.  He  made  me, 
for  the  first  time,  feel  what  it  costs  a  man  to  declare  affection 

when  he  doubts   response The   spectacle  of  one, 

ordinarily  so  statue-like,  thus  trembling,  stirred,  and  over- 
come, gave  me  a  strange  shock.  I  could  only  entreat  him  to 
leave  me  then,  and  promise  a  reply  on  the  morrow.  I  asked 
if  he  had  spoken  to  Papa.  He  said  he  dared  not.  I  think  I 
half  led,  half  put  him  out  of  the  room." 

So  deep,  so  fervent,  and  so  enduring  was  the  affection 
Miss  Bronte  had  inspired  in  the  heart  of  this  good  man ! 
It  is  an  honour  to  her ;  and,  as  such,  I  have  thought  it  my 
duty  to  speak  thus  much,  and  quote  thus  fully  from  her  let- 
tci  about  it.  And  now  I  pass  to  my  second  reason  for  dwell- 
ing on  a  subject  which  may  possibly  be  considered  by  some, 
at  first  sight,  of  too  private  a  nature  for  publication.  When 
Mr.  Nicholls  had  left  her,  Charlotte  went  immediately  to  her 


LETTER   TO   MRS.    GASKELL.  227 

father  and  told  him  all.  He  always  disapproved  of  mar- 
riages, and  constantly  talked  against  them.  But  he  more 
than  disapproved  at  this  time  ;  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of 
this  attachment  of  Mr.  Nicholls  to  his  daughter.  Fearing 
the  consequences  of  agitation  to  one  so  recently  an  invalid, 
she  made  haste  to  give  her  father  a  promise  that,  on  the 
morrow,  Mr.  Nicholls  should  have  a  distinct  refusal.  Thus 
quietly  and  modestly  did  she,  on  whom  such  hard  j  udgment^ 
had  been  passed  by  ignorant  reviewers,  receive  this  vehement, 
passionate  declaration  of  love, —  thus  thoughtfully  for  her 
father,  and  unselfishly  for  herself,  put  aside  all  consideration 
of  how  she  should  reply,  excepting  as  he  wished  ! 

The  immediate  result  of  Mr.  Nicholls'  declaration  of 
attachment  was,  that  he  sent  in  his  resignation  of  the  curacy 
of  Haworth ;  and  that  Miss  Bronte  held  herself  simply  pas- 
sive as  far  as  words  and  actions  went,  while  she  suffered 
acute  pain  from  the  strong  expressions  which  her  father  used 
in  speaking  of  Mr.  Nicholls,  and  from  the  too  evident  distress 
and  failure  of  health  on  the  part  of  the  latter.  Under  these 
circumstances  she  more  gladly  than  ever  availed  herself  of 
Mrs.  Smith's  proposal,  that  she  should  again  visit  them  in 
London ;  and  thither  she  accordingly  went  in  the  first  week 
of  the  year  1853. 

Prom  thence  I  received  the  following  letter.  It  is  with 
a  sad,  proud  pleasure  I  copy  her  words  of  friendship  now. 

"  January  12th,  1853, 
"It  is  with  you  the  ball  rests.     I  have  not  heard  from 
yoa  since  I  wrote  last ;  but  I  thought  I  knew  the  reason  of 
your  silence,  viz.  application  to  work, — and  therefore  I  ac- 
cept it,  not  merely  with  resignation,  but  with  satisfaction. 

"I  am  now  in  London,  as  the  date  above  will  show; 
staying  very  quietly  at  my  publisher's,  and  correcting  proofs, 
fee.     Before  receiving  yours,  I  had  felt,  and  expressed  to 


22S  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

Mr.  Smith,  reluctance  to  come  in  the  way  of  '  Euth  '  not 
that  I  think  she  would  suffer  from  contact  with  ^  Villette' — 
we  know  not  but  that  the  damage  might  be  the  other  way  ; 
but  I  have  ever  held  comparisons  to  be  odious,  and  would 
fain  that  neither  I  nor  my  friends  should  be  made  subjects 
for  the  same.  Mr.  Smith  proposes,  accordingly,  to  defer  the 
publication  of  my  book  till  the  24th  inst. ;  he  says  that  will 
give  ^  Euth'  the  start  in  the  papers  daily  and  weekly,  and 
also  will  leave  free  to  her  all  the  February  magazines. 
Should  this  delay  appear  to  you  insufficient,  speak  !  and  it 
shall  be  protracted. 

"  I  dare  say,  arrange  as  we  may,  we  shall  not  be  able 
wholly  to  prevent  comparisons ;  it  is  the  nature  of  some 
critics  to  be  invidious ;  but  we  need  not  care  :  we  can  set 
them  at  defiance;  they  shall  not  make  us  foes,  they  shall  not 
mingle  with  our  mutual  feelings  one  taint  of  jealousy :  there 
is  my  hand  on  that ;  I  know  you  will  give  clasp  for  clasp. 

"  '"  Villette'  has  indeed  no  right  to   push  itself  before 

^Ruth.'     There  is   a   goodness,  a  philanthropic  purpose,  a 

social  use  in  the  latter,  to  which  the  former  cannot  for  an 

instant  pretend ;  nor  can  it  claim  precedence  on  the  ground 

of  surpassing  power  :  I  think  it  much  quieter  than  ^  Jane 

Eyre.' 

***** 

"  I  wish  to  see  you^  probably  at  least  as  much  as  you  can 
wish  to  see  me^  and  therefore  shall  consider  your  invitation 
for  March  as  an  engagement ;  about  the  close  of  that  month, 
then,  I  hope  to  pay  you  a  brief  visit.  With  kindest  remem- 
brances to  Mr.  Gaskell  and  all  your  precious  circle,  I  am,*^ 
&c. 

This  visit  at  Mrs.  Smith's  was  passed  more  quietly  than 
any  previous  one,  and  was  consequently  more  in  accordance 
with  her  own  tastes.     She  saw  things  rather  than  persons 


LAST   VISIT   TO   LONDON".  229 

and  being  allowed  to  have  her  own  choice  of  sights,  she  select- 
ed the  "  real  in  preference  to  the  decorative  side  of  life.' 
She  went  over  two  prisons, — one  ancient,  the  other  modern, 
— Newgate  and  Pentonville ;  over  two  hospitals,  the  Found- 
ling and  Bethlehem.  She  was  also  taken,  at  her  own  request, 
to  see  several  of  the  great  City  sights;  the  Bank,  the  Ex- 
change, Rothschild's,  &c. 

The  power  of  vast  yet  minute  organization,  always  called 
out  her  respect  and  admiration.  She  appreciated  it  more 
fully  than  most  women  are  able  to  do.  All  that  she  saw 
during  this  last  visit  to  London  impressed  her  deeply — so 
much  so  as  to  render  her  incapable  of  the  immediate  expres- 
sion of  her  feelings,  or  of  reasoning  upon  her  impressions 
while  they  were  so  vivid.  If  she  had  lived,  her  deep  heart 
would  sooner  or  later  have  spoken  out  on  these  things. 

What  she  saw  dwelt  in  her  thoughts,  and  lay  heavy  on 
her  spirits.  She  received  the  utmost  kindness  from  her 
hosts,  and  had  the  old,  warm,  and  grateful  regard  for  them. 
But  looking  back,  with  the  knowledge  of  what  was  then  the 
future,  which  Time  has  given,  one  cannot  but  imagine  that 
there  was  a  toning-down  in  preparation  for  the  final  farewell 
to  these  kind  friends,  whom  she  saw  for  the  last  time  on  a 

Wednesday  morning  in  February.     She  met  her  friend  E 

at  Keighlfty  on  her  return,  and  the  two  proceeded  to  Haworth 
together. 

"  Villette  ' — which,  if  less  interesting  as  a  mere  story 
than  "  Jane  Eyre,"  displays  yet  more  of  the  extraordinary 
genius  of  the  author — was  received  with  one  burst  of  aecla- 
mation.  Out  of  so  small  a  circle  of  characters,  dwelling  in 
so  dull  and  monotonous  an  area  as  a  "pension,"  this  wonder 
ful  tale  was  evolved  ! 

See  how  she  receives  the  good  tidings  of  her  success  I 


230  IJFE    OF   CIIAELOTTE   BKONTE. 

"  Feb.  15th,  1853. 
"  I  got  a  budget  of  no  less  than  seven  papers  yesterday 
and  to-day.  The  import  of  all  the  notices  is  such  as  to  make 
my  heart  swell  with  thankfulness  to  Him,  who  takes  note 
both  of  suffering,  and  work,  and  motives.  Papa  is  pleased 
too.  As  to  friends  in  general,  I  believe  I  can  love  them 
still,  without  expecting  them  to  take  any  large  share  in  this 
sort  of  gratiJScation.  The  longer  I  live,  the  more  plainly  I 
see  that  gentle  must  be  the  strain  on  fragile  human  nature ; 
it  will  not  bear  much," 

I  suspect  that  the  touch  of  slight  disappointment,  per 
ceptible  in  the  last  few  lines,  arose  from  her  great  suscepti- 
bility to  an  opinion  she  valued  much, — that  of  Miss  Marti- 
neau,  who,  both  in  an  article  on  "  Yillette  "  in  the  ^'  Daily 
News,''  and  in  a  private  letter  to  Miss  Bronte,  wounded  her 
to  the  quick  by  expressions  of  censure  which  she  believed  to 
be  unjust  and  unfounded,  but  which,  if  correct  and  true, 
went  deeper  than  any  merely  artistic  fault.  An  author  may 
bring  himself  to  believe  that  he  can  bear  blame  with  equa- 
nimity, from  whatever  quarter  it  comes ;  but  its  force  is  de- 
rived altogether  from  the  character  of  this.  To  the  public, 
one  reviewer  may  be  the  same  impersonal  being  as  another  ; 
but  an  author  has  frequently  a  far  deeper  significance  to  at- 
tach to  opinions.  They  are  the  verdicts  of  those  whom  he 
respects  and  admires,  or  the  mere  words  of  those  for  whose 
judgment  he  cares  not  a  jot.  It  is  this  knowledge  of  the 
individual  worth  of  the  reviewer's  opinion,  which  makes  the 
censures  of  some  sink  so  deep,  and  prey  so  heavily  upon  an 
author's  heart.  And  thus,  in  proportion  to  her  true,  firm 
regard  for  Miss  Martineau,  did  Miss  Bronte  suffer  under 
what  she  considered  her  misjudgment,  not  merely  of  writings 
but  of  character. 

She  had  long  before  asked  Miss  Martineau  to  tell  hci 


IIER   EEPUGNANCE   TO   IMPEOPKIETY.  231 

whether  she  considered  that  any  want  of  womanly  delicacy 
or  propriety  was  betrayed  in  "  Jane  Eyre."  And  on  re- 
ceiving Miss  Martineau's  assurance  that  she  did  not,  Miss 
Bronte  entreated  her  to  declare  it  frankly  if  she  thought 
there  was  any  failure  of  this  description  in  any  future  work 
of  "  Currer  Bell's."  The  promise  then  given  of  faithful 
truth-speaking,  Miss  Martineau  fulfilled  when  "Villette'' 
appeared.  Miss  Bronte  writhed  under  what  she  felt  to  bo 
injustice. 

This  seems  a  fitting  place  to  state  how  utterly  uncon- 
scious she  was  of  what  was,  by  some,  esteemed  coarse  in  her 
writings.  One  day,  during  that  visit  at  the  Briery  when  I 
first  met  her,  the  conversation  turned  upon  the  subject  of 
women's  writing  fiction ;  and  some  one  remarked  on  the  fact 
that,  in  certain  instances,  authoresses  had  much  outstepped 
the  line  which  men  felt  to  be  proper  in  works  of  this  kind. 
Miss  Bronte  said  she  wondered  how  far  this  was  a  natural 
consequence  of  allowing  the  imagination  to  work  too  con- 
stantly ;  Sir  James  and  Lady  Kay  Shuttleworth  and  I  ex- 
pressed our  belief  that  such  violations  of  propriety  were  al- 
together unconscious  on  the  part  of  those  to  whom  reference 
had  been  made.  I  remember  her  grave,  earnest  way  of  say- 
ing, "  I  trust  Grod  will  take  from  me  whatever  power  of  in- 
vention or  expression  I  may  have,  before  He  lets  me  become 
blind  to  the  sense  of  what  is  fitting  or  unfitting  to  be  said  !  " 

Again,  she  was  invariably  shocked  and  distressed  when 
she  heard  of  any  disapproval  of  "  Jane  Eyre  "  on  the  ground 
above-mentioned.  Some  one  said  to  her  in  London,  ^^  You 
know,  you  and  I,  Miss  Bronte,  have  both  written  naughty 
books !  "  She  dwelt  much  on  this ;  and,  as  if  it  weighed 
on  her  mind,  took  an  opportunity  to  ask  Mrs.  Smith,  as  she 
would  have  asked  a  mother — if  she  had  not  been  motherless 
from  earliest  childhood — whether,  indeed,  there  was  any- 
thing so  wrong  in  "  Jane  Eyre." 


232  LIFE   OF   CIIAELOTTE   EKONTE. 

I  do  not  deny  for  myself  the  existence  of  coarseness' 
here  and  there  in  her  works,  otherwise  so  entirely  noble.  I 
only  ask  those  who  read  them  to  consider  her  life, — which 
has  been  openly  laid  bare  before  them, — and  to  say  how  it 
could  be  otherwise.  She  saw  few  men ;  and  among  these 
few  were  one  or  two  with  whom  she  'had  been  acquainted 
since  early  girlhood, — who  had  shown  her  much  friendliness 
and  kindness, — through  whose  family  she  had  received  many 
pleasures, — for  whose  intellect  she  had  a  great  respect, — ^but 
who  talked  before  her,  if  not  to  her,  with  as  little  reticence 
as  Eochester  talked  to  Jane  Eyre.  Take  this  in  connection 
with  her  poor  brother's  sad  life,  and  the  out-spoken  people 
among  whom  she  lived, — remember  her  strong  feeliog  of  the 
duty  of  representing  life  as  it  really  is,  not  as  it  ought  to  be, 
— and  then  do  her  justice  for  all  that  she  was,  and  all 
that  she  would  have  been  (had  God  spared  her),  rather  than 
censure  her  because  circumstances  forced  her  to  touch  pitch, 
as  it  were,  and  by  it  her  hand  was  for  a  moment  defiled.  It 
was  but  skin  deep.  Every  change  in  her  life  was  purifying 
her ;  it  hardly  could  raise  her.  Again  I  cry,  ^'  If  she  had 
but  lived ! " 

The  misunderstanding  with  Miss  Martineau  on  account 
of  ^'  Villette,"  was  the  cause  of  bitter  regret  to  Miss  Bronte. 
Her  woman's  nature  had  been  touched,  as  she  thought,  with 
insulting  misconception ;  and  she  had  dearly  loved  the  per- 
son who  had  thus  unconsciously  wounded  her.  It  was  but 
in  the  January  just  past  that  she  had  written  as  follows,  in 
reply  to  a  friend,  the  tenor  of  whose  letter  we  may  guess 
from  this  answer : — 

*'  I  read  attentively  all  you  say  about  Miss  Martineau  ; 
the  sincerity  and  constancy  of  your  solicitude  touch  me  very 
much  ;  I  should  grieve  to  neglect  or  oppose  your  advice,  and 
yet  I  do  not  feel  it  would  be  right  to  give  Miss  Martineau 
up  entirely.     There  is  in  her  nature  much  that  is  very  no- 


MISUNDEESTANDING   WITH   MISS   MAKTINEAU.        233 

ble ;  hundreds  have  forsaken  her,  more,  I  fear,  in  the  appre- 
hension that  their  fair  names  may  suffer,  if  seen  in  connec- 
tion with  hers,  than  from  any  pure  convictions,  such  as  you 
suggest,  of  harm  consequent  on  her  fatal  tenets.  With  these 
fair-weather  friends  I  cannot  bear  to  rank ;  and  for  her  sin, 
is  it  not  one  of  those  of  which  God  and  not  man  must 
judge  ? 

"  To  speak  the  truth,  my  dear  Miss ,  I  believe,  if 

you  were  in  my  place,  and  knew  Miss  Martineau  as  I  do, — 
if  you  had  shared  with  me  the  proofs  of  her  genuine  kindli- 
ness, and  had  seen  how  she  secretly  suffers  from  abandonment, 
— you  would  be  the  last  to  give  her  up ;  you  would  separate 
the  sinner  from  the  sin,  and  feel  as  if  the  right  lay  rather  in 
quietly  adhering  to  her  in  her  strait,  while  that  adherence  is 
unfashionable  and  unpopular,  than  in  turning  on  her  your 
back  when  the  world  sets  the  example.  I  believe  she  is  one 
of  those  whom  opposition  and  desertion  make  obstinate  in 
error ;  while  patience  and  tolerance  touch  her  deeply  and 
keenly,  and  incline  her  to  ask  of  her  own  heart  whether  the 
course  she  has  been  pursuing  may  not  possibly  be  a  faulty 
course." 

Kindly  and  faithful  words  !  which  Miss  Martineau  never 
knew  of;  to  be  repaid  in  words  more  grand  and  tender,  when 
Charlotte  lay  deaf  and  cold  by  her  dead  sisters.  In  spite 
of  their  short,  sorrowful  misunderstanding,  they  were  a  pair 
of  noble  women  and  faithful  friends. 

,  I  turn  to  a  pleasanter  subject.  While  she  was  in  Lon- 
don, Miss  Bronte  had  seen  Lawrence's  portrait  of  Mr. 
Thackeray,  and  admired  it  extremely.  Her  first  words,  af- 
ter she  had  stood  before  it  some  time  in  silence,  were,  "  And 
there  came  up  a  Lion  out  of  Judah  !  "  The  likeness  was 
by  this  time  engraved,  and  Mr.  Smith  sent  her  a  copy  of  it 


234  LIFE   OF   CHAKLOTTE   BRONTE. 

TO  G.  SMITH,  ESQ. 

"Hawortli,  Feb.  26tli,  1853. 
*^  My  dear  Sir, — At  a  late  hour  yesterday  evening  I  had 
the  honour  of  receiving,  at  Haworth  Parsonage,  a  distin- 
guished guest,  none  other  than  W.  M.  Thackeray,  Esq. 
Mindful  of  the  rites  of  hospitality,  I  hung  him  up  in  state 
this  morning.  He  looks  superb  in  his  beautiful,  tasteful 
gilded  gibbet.  For  companion  he  has  the  Duke  of  "Welling- 
ton, (do  you  remember  giving  me  that  picture  ?)  and  for  con- 
trast and  foil  Richmond's  portrait  of  an  unworthy  individ- 
ual, who,  in  such  society,  must  be  nameless.  Thackeray 
looks  away  from  the  latter  character  with  a  grand  scorn,  ed- 
ifying to  witness.  I  wonder  if  the  giver  of  these  gifts  will 
ever  see  them  on  the  walls  where  they  now  hang ;  it  pleases 
me  to  fancy  that  one  day  he  may.  My  father  stood  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  this  morning  examining  the  great  man's 
picture.  The  conclusion  of  his  survey  was,  that  he  thought 
it  a  puzzling  head ;  if  he  had  known  nothing  previously  of 
the  original's  character,  he  could  not  have  read  it  in  his  fea- 
tures. I  wonder  at  this.  To  me  the  broad  brow  seems  to 
express  intellect.  Certain  lines  about  the  nose  and  cheek 
betray  the  satirist  and  cynic ;  the  mouth  indicates  a  child- 
like simplicity — ^perhaps  even  a  degree  of  irresoluteness,  in- 
consistency— weakness  in  short,  but  a  weakness  not  unamia- 
ble.  The  engraving  seems  to  me  very  good.  A  certain  not 
quite  Christian  expression — *  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon 
it ' — an  expression  of  sj)itej  most  vividly  marked  in  the  orig- 
inal, is  here  softened,  and  perhaps  a  little — a  very  little — of 
the  power  has  escaped  in  this  ameliorating  process.  Did  it 
strike  you  thus  ?  " 

Miss  Bronte  was  in  much  better  health  during  this  wm- 
tcr  of  1852-3,  than  she  had  been  the  year  before. 

"  For  my  part,"  (she  wrote  to  me  in  February)  '^  I  have 


VISIT    OF   THE   BISHOP    OF   RIPOJST.  235 

thus  far  borne  the  cold  weather  well.  I  have  taken  long 
walks  on  the  crackling  snow,  and  felt  the  frosty  air  bracing 
This  winter  has,  for  me,  not  been  like  last  winter.  Decern 
ber,  January,  February,  '51-2,  passed  like  a  long  stormy 
night,  conscious  of  one  painful  dream,  all  solitary  grief  and 
sickness.  The  corresponding  months  in  '52--3  have  gone 
over  my  head  quietly  and  not  uncheerfully.  Thank  God  for 
the  change  and  the  repose !  How  welcome  it  has  been  He 
only  knows  !  My  father  too  has  borne  the  season  well ;  and 
my  book,  and  its  reception  thus  far,  have  pleased  and 
cheered  him." 

In  March  the  quiet  Parsonage  had  the  honour  of  receiv- 
ing a  visit  from  the  then  Bishop  of  Ripon.  He  remained 
one  night  with  Mr.  Bronte.  In  the  evening,  some  of  the 
neighbouring  clergy  were  invited  to  meet  him  at  tea  and 
supper ;  and  during  the  latter  meal,  some  of  the  "  curates" 
began  merrily  to  upbraid  Miss  Bronte  with  "  putting  them 
into  a  book ;  "  and  she,  shrinking  from  thus  having  her  char- 
acter as  authoress  thrust  upon  her  at  her  own  table,  and  in 
the  presence  of  a  stranger,  pleasantly  appealed  to  the  bishop 
as  to  whether  it  was  quite  fair  thus  to  drive  her  into  a  cor- 
ner. His  Lordship,  I  have  been  told,  was  agreeably  impress- 
ed with  the  gentle  unassuming  manners  of  his  hostess,  and 
with  the  perfect  propriety  and  consistency  of  the  arrange- 
ments in  the  modest  household.  So  much  for  the  Bishop's 
recollection  of  his  visit.     Now  'We  will  turn  to  hers. 

"  Marcli  4th. 
"  The  Bishop  has  been,  and  is  gone.  He  is  certainly  a 
most  charming  Bishop ;  the  most  benignant  gentleman  that 
ever  put  on  lawn  sleeves  ;  yet  stately  too,  and  quite  compe- 
tent to  check  encroachments.  His  visit  passed  capitally 
well ;  and  at  its  close,  as  he  was  going  away,  he  expressed 


236  LIFE   OF   CHARLOTTE   BRONI'E. 

himself  thorouglilj  gratified  with  all  he  had  seen.  The  In- 
spector has  been  also  in  the  course  of  the  past  week ;  so  that 
I  have  had  a  somewhat  busy  time  of  it.  If  you  could  have 
been  at  Ha  worth  to  share  the  pleasures  of  the  company, 
without  having  been  inconvenienced  by  the  little  bustle  of 
the  preparation,  I  should  have  been  very  glad.  But  the  house 
was  a  good  deal  put  out  of  its  way,  as  you  may  suppose ;  all 
passed,  however,  orderly,  quietly,  and  well.  Martha  waited 
very  nicely,  and  I  had  a  person  to  help  her  in  the  kitchen. 
Papa  kept  up,  too,  fully  as  well  as  I  expected,  thongh  I  doubt 
whether  he  could  have  borne  another  day  of  it.  My  penalty 
came  on  in  a  strong  headache  as  soon  as  the  Bishop  was  gone: 
how  thankful  I  was  that  it  had  patiently  waited  his  departure. 
I  continue  stupid  to-day :  of  course,  it  is  the  re-action  con- 
sequent on  several  days  of  extra  exertion  and  excitement. 
It  is  very  well  to  talk  of  receiving  a  Bishop  without  trouble, 
but  you  must  prepare  for  him." 

By  this  time  some  of  the  Beviews  had  begun  to  find 
fault  with  "  Villette."     Miss  Bronte  made  her  old  request. 

TO  W.  S.   WILLIAMS,  ESQ. 

^'  My  dear  Sir, — Were  a  review  to  appear,  inspired  with 
treble  their  animus,  pray  do  not  withhold  it  from  me.  I 
like  to  see  the  satisfactory  notices, — especially  I  like  to  carry 
them  to  my  father ;  but  I  must  see  such  as  are  i^?isatisfac- 
tory  and  hostile ;  these  are  for  my  own  especial  edification ; 
— it  is  in  these  I  best  read  public  feeling  and  opinion.  To 
shun  examination  into  the  dangerous  and  disagreeable  seems 
to  me  cowardly.  I  long  always  to  know  what  really  is^  and 
am  only  unnerved  when  kept  in  the  dark 

"  As  to  the  character  of  '  Lucy  Snowe,'  my  intention 
from  the  first  was  that  she  should  not  occupy  the  pedestal  to 
which  '■  Jane  Eyre '  was  raised  by  some  injudicious  admirers. 


LETTER   TO    W.    S.    WILLIAMS,    ESQ.  237 

Slie  is  where  I  meant  her  to  be,  and  where  no  charge  of  self- 
laudation  can  touch  her. 

"  The  note  you  sent  this  morning  from  Lady  Harrietto 
St.  Clair,  is  precisely  to  the  same  purport  as  Miss  Muloch's 
request, — an  application  for  exact  and  authentic  information 
respecting  the  fate  of  M.  Paul  Emanuel !  You  see  how 
much  the  ladies  think  of  this  little  man,  whom  you  none  of 
you  like.  I  had  a  letter  the  other  day,  announcing  that  a 
lady  of  some  note,  who  had  always  determined  that  whenever 
she  married,  her  husband  should  be  the  counterpart  of  '  Mr. 
Knightly'  in  Miss  Austen's  *  Emma,'  had  now  changed  her 
mind,  and  vowed  that  she  would  either  find  the  duplicate  of 
Professor  Emanuel,  or  remain  for  ever  single !  I  have  sent 
Lady  Harriette  an  answer  so  worded  as  to  leave  the  matter 
pretty  much  where  it  was.  Since  the  little  puzzle  amuses 
the  ladies,  it  would  be  a  pity  to  spoil  their  sport  by  giving 
them  the  key." 

When  Easter,  with  its  duties  arising  out  of  sermons  to 
be  preached  by  strange  clergymen,  who  had  afterwards  to  be 
entertained  at  the  Parsonage, — with  Mechanics'  Institute 
Meetings,  and  school  tea-drinkings,  was  over  and  gone,  she 
came,  at  the  close  of  April,  to  visit  us  in  Manchester. 
We  had  a  friend,  a  young  lady,  staying  with  us.  Miss 
Bronte  had  expected  to  find  us  alone;  aud  although  our 
friend  was  gentle  and  sensible  after  Miss  Bronte's  own  heart, 
yet  her  presence  was  enough  to  create  a  nervous  tremour.  I 
was  aware  that  both  of  our  guests  were  unusually  silent ;  and 
I  saw  a  little  shiver  run  from  time  to  time  over  Miss  Bronte's 
frame.  I  could  account  for  the  modest  reserve  of  the  young 
lady ;  and  the  next  day  Miss  Bronte  told  me  how  the  unex- 
pected sight  of  a  strange  face  had  affected  her. 

It  was  now  two  or  three  years  since  I  had  witnessed  a 
eimilar  effect  produced  on  her,  in  anticipation  of  a  quiet  even- 
ing at  Fox-How ;  and  since  then  she  had  seen  many  and 


238  LIFE  OF  CHAKLOTTE  BRONTE. 

various  people  in  London:  but  the  physical  sensations  pro- 
duced  by  shyness  were  still  the  same ;  and  on  the  following 
day  she  laboured  under  severe  headaches.  I  had  several 
opportunities  of  perceiving  how  this  nervousness  was  ingrained 
in  her  constitution,  and  how  acutely  she  suffered  in  striving 
to  overcome  it.  One  evening  we  had,  among  other  guests, 
two  sisters  who  sang  Scottish  ballads  exquisitely.  Miss 
Bronte  had  been  sitting  quiet  and  constrained  till  they  be- 
gan "  The  Bonnie  House  of  Airlie,"  but  the  effect  of  that 
and  "Carlisle  Yetts,"  which  followed,  was  as  irresistible  as 
the  playing  of  the  Piper  of  Hamelin.  The  beautiful  clear 
light  came  into  her  eyes  ;  her  lips  quivered  with  emotion  ; 
she  forgot  herself,  rose,  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  piano, 
where  she  asked  eagerly  for  song  after  song.  The  sisters 
begged  her  to  come  and  see  them  the  next  morning,  when 
they  would  sing  as  long  as  ever  she  liked  ;  and  she  promised 
gladly  and  thankfully.  But  on  reaching  the  house  her  courage 
failed.  We  walked  some  time  up  and  down  the  street  ;  she 
upbraiding  herself  all  the  while  for  folly,  and  trying  to  dwell 
on  the  sweet  echoes  in  her  memory  rather  than  on  the 
thought  of  a  third  sister  who  would  have  to  be  faced  if  we 
went  in.  But  it  was  of  no  use ;  and  dreading  lest  this  strug- 
gle with  herself  might  bring  on  one  of  her  trying  headaches, 
I  entered  at  last  and  made  the  best  apology  I  could  for  her 
non-appearance.  Much  of  this  nervous  dread  of  e^icountering 
strangers  I  ascribed  to  the  idea  of  her  personal  ugliness, 
which  had  been  strongly  impressed  upon  her  imagination 
early  in  life,  and  which  she  exaggerated  to  herself  in  a  re- 
markable manner.  "  I  notice,"  said  she,  "  that  after  a 
stranger  has  once  looked  at  my  face,  he  is  careful  not  to  let 
his  eyes  wander  to  that  part  of  the  room  again  !  "  A  more 
untrue  idea  never  entered  into  any  one's  head.  Two  gentle- 
men who  saw  her  during  this  visit,  without  knowing  at  the 
time  who  she  was,  were    singularly  attracted  by  her  ap- 


RESERVE   BEOKEN   THROUGH.  239 

pearance ;  and  this  feeling  of  attraction  towards  a  pleasant 
countenance,  sweet  voice,  and  gentle  timid  manners,  was  so 
strong  in  one  as  to  conquer  a  dislike  he  had  previously  enter- 
tained to  her  works. 

There  was  another  circumstance  that  came  to  my  know* 
ledge  at  this  period  which  told  secrets  about  the  finely-strung 
frame.  One  night  I  was  on  the  point  of  relating  some  dismal 
ghost  story,  just  before  bed-time.  She  shrank  from  hearing 
it,  and  confessed  that  she  was  superstitious,  and  prone  at  all 
times  to  the  involuntary  recurrence  of  any  thoughts  of 
ominous  gloom  which  might  have  been  suggested  to  her.  She 
said  that  on  first  cominoj  to  us,  she  had  found  a  letter  on  her 
dressing-table  from  a  friend  in  Yorkshire,  containing  a  story 
which  had  impressed  her  vividly  ever  since ; — that  it  min- 
gled with  her  dreams  at  night,  and  made  her  sleep  restless 
and  unrefreshing. 

One  day  we  asked  two  gentlemen  to  meet  her  at  dinner, 
expecting  that  she  and  they  would  have  a  mutual  pleasure  in 
making  each  other^s  acquaintance.  To  our  disappointment, 
she  arew  back'  with  timid  reserve  from  all  their  advances, 
replying  to  their  questions  and  remarks  in  the  briefest  man- 
ner possible ;  till  at  last  they  gave  up  their  efibrts  to  draw 
her  into  conversation  in  despair,  and  talked  to  each  other 
and  my  husband  on  subjects  of  recent  local  interest.  Among 
these  Thackeray's  Lectures  (which  had  lately  been  delivered 
in  Manchester)  were  spoken  of,  and  that  on  Fielding  espe- 
cially dwelt  upon.  One  gentleman  objected  to  it  strongly,  as 
calculated  to  do  moral  harm,  and  regretted  that  a  man  hav- 
ing so  great  an  influence  over  the  tone  of  thought  of  the  day, 
as  Thackeray,  should  not  more  carefully  weigh  his  words. 
The  other  took  the  opposite  view.  He  said  that  Thackeray 
described  men  from  the  inside,  as  it  were;  through  his 
strong  power  of  dramatic  sympathy,  he  identified  himself 
with  certain  characters,  felt  their  temptations,  entered  into 


240  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

tlieir  pleasures,  &c.  This  roused  Miss  Bronte,  who  threw 
herself  warmly  into  the  discussion ;  the  ice  of  her  reserve  was 
broken,  and  from  that  time  she  showed  her  interest  in  all 
that  was  said,  and  contributed  her  share  to  any  conversation 
that  was  going  on  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

What  she  said,  and  which  part  she  took,  in  the  dispute 
about  Thackeray's  lecture,  may  be  gathered  from  the  follow 
ing  letter,  referring  to  the  same  subject : — 

"  The  Lectures  arrived  safely ;  I  have  read  them 
through  twice.  They  must  be  studied  to  be  appreciated.  I 
thought  well  of  them  when  I  heard  them  delivered,  but  now 
I  see  their  real  power,  and  it  is  great.  The  lecture  on  Swift 
was  new  to  me ;  I  thought  it  almost  matchless.  Not  that 
by  any  means  I  always  agree  with  Mr.  Thackeray's 
opinions,  but  his  force,  his  penetration,  his  pithy  simplicity, 
his  eloquence, — ^his  manly  sonorous  eloquence  —  command 
entire  admiration.  .  .  .  Against  his  errors  I  protest,  were 
it  treason  to  do  so.  I  was  present  at  the  Fielding  lecture  : 
the  hour  spent  in  listening  to  it  was  a  painful  hour.  That 
Thackeray  was  wrong  in  his  way  of  treating  Fielding's 
character  and  vices,  my  conscience  told  me.  After  reading 
that  lecture,  I  trebly  felt  that  he  was  wrong — dangerously 
wrong.  Had  Thackeray  owned  a  son,  grown,  or  growing  up, 
and  a  son,  brilliant  but  reckless — would  he  have  spoken  in 
that  light  way  of  courses  that  lead  to  disgrace  and  the  grave  ? 
He  speaks  of  it  all  as  if  he  theorised ;  as  if  he  had  never 
been  called  on,  in  the  course  of  his  life,  to  witness  the  actual 
consequences  of  such  failings ;  as  if  he  had  never  stood  by 
and  seen  the  issue,  the  final  result  of  it  all.  I  believe,  if 
only  once  the  prospect  of  a  promising  life  blasted  on  the 
outset  by  wild  ways  had  passed  close  under  his  eyes,  he 
never  could  have  spoken  with  such  levity  of  what  led  to  its 
piteous  destruction.      Had  I  a  brother  yet  living,  I  should 


MR.    THACKEEAY^S   LECTURE   ON   FIELDING.  24:1 

tremble  to  let  him  read  Thackeray's  lecture  on  Fielding.  I 
should  hide  it  away  from  him.  If,  in  spite  of  precaution,  it 
should  fall  into  his  hands,  I  should  earnestly  pray  him  not 
to  be  misled  by  the  voice  of  the  charmer,  let  him  charm 
never  so  wisely.  Not  that  for  a  moment  I  would  have  had 
Thackeray  to  abuse  Fielding,  or  even  Pharisaically  to  con- 
demn his  life ;  but  I  do  most  deeply  grieve  that  it  never 
entered  into  his  heart  sadly  and  nearly  to  feel  the  peril  of 
such  a  career,  that  he  might  have  dedicated  some  of  his  great 
strength  to  a  potent  warning  against  its  adoption  by  any 
young  man.  I  believe  temptation  often  assails  the  finest 
manly  natures  ;  as  the  pecking  sparrow  or  destructive  wasp 
attacks  the  sweetest  and  mellowest  fruit,  eschewing  what  is 
sour  and  crude.  The  true  lover  of  his  race  ought  to  devote 
his  vigour  to  guard  and  protect;  he  should  sweep  away 
every  lure  with  a  kind  of  rage  at  its  treachery.  You  will 
think  this  far  too  serious,  I  dare  say;  but  the  subject  is 
serious,  and  one  cannot  help  feeling  upon  it  earnestly.'' 

VOL.  IL — 11 


342  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE 


::!HAPTER    XIII. 

AriER  lier  visit  to  Manchester,  she  had  to  return  to  a  re- 
opening of  the  painful  circumstances  of  the  previous  winter, 
as  the  time  drew  near  for  Mr.  Nicholls'  departure  from  Ha- 
worth.  A  testimonial  of  respect  from  the  parishioners  was 
presented,  at  a  public  meeting,  to  one  who  had  faithfully 
served  them  for  eight  years  :  and  he  left  the  place,  and  she 
saw  no  chance  of  hearing  a  word  aboiit  him  in  the  future, 
unless  it  was  some  second-hand  scrap  of  intelligence,  dropped 
out  accidentally  by  one  of  the  neighbouring  clergymen. 

I  had  promised  to  pay  her  a  visit  on  my  return  from 
London  in  June ;  but,  after  the  day  was  fixed,  a  letter  came 
from  Mr.  Bronte,  saying  that  she  was  suffering  from  so  se- 
vere an  attack  of  influenza,  accompanied  with  such  excru- 
ciating pain  in  the  head,  that  he  must  request  me  to  defer 
my  visit  until  she  was  better.  While  sorry  for  the  cause,  I 
did  not  regret  that  my  going  was  delayed  till  the  season 
when  the  moors  would  be  all  glorious  with  the  purple  bloom 
of  the  heather ;  and  thus  present  a  scene  about  which  she 
had  often  spoken  to  me.  So  we  agreed  that  I  should  not 
come  to  her  before  August  or  September,  Meanwhile,  I 
received  a  letter  from  which  I  am  tempted  to  take  an  ex- 
tract, as  it  shows  both  her  conception  of  what  fictitious 
writing  ought  to  be,  and  her  always  kindly  interest  in  what 
1  was  doing. 


A   THOUGHT   ON   WEITINa   FICTION.  243 

".July  9tli,  1853. 
"  Thank  you  for  your  letter  ;  it  was  as  pleasant  as  a  quiet 
cliat,  as  welcome  as  spring  showers,  as  reviving  as  a  friend's 
visit;  in  short,  it  was  very  like  a  page  of  ^  Cranford.'    .    .    . 
A  thought  strikes  me.     Do  you,  who  have  so  many  friends, 
— so  large  a  circle  of  acquaintance, — find  it  easy,  when  you 
'  git  down  to  write,  to  isolate  yourself  from  all  those  ties,  and 
their  sweet  associations,  so  as  to  be  your  own  woman^  unin- 
fluenced or  swayed  by  the  consciousness  of  how  your  work 
may  affect  other  minds ;  what  blame  or  what  sympathy  it 
may  call  forth  ?     Does  no  luminous  cloud  ever  come  between 
you  and  the  severe  Truth,  as  you  know  it  in  your  own  secret 
and  clear-seeing  soul  ?     In  a  word,  are  you  never  tempted 
to  make  your  characters  more  amiable  than  the  Life,  by  the 
inclination  to  assimilate  your  thoughts  to  the  thoughts  of 
those  who  always  feel  kindly,  but  sometimes  fail  to   see 
justly?     Don't  answer  the  question;  it  is  not  intended  to 
be  answered.     .......     Your  account  of  Mrs.  Stowe 

was  stimulatingly  interesting.  I  long  to  see  you,  to  get  you 
to  say  it,  and  many  other  things,  all  over  again.  My  father 
continues  better.  I  am  better  too;  but  to-day  I  have  a 
headache  again,  which  will  hardly  let  me  write  coherently. 
Give  my  dear  love  to  M,  and  M.,  dear  happy  girls  as  they 
are.  You  cannot  now  transmit  my  message  to  F.  and  J.  I 
prized  the  little  wild-flower, — not  that  I  think  the  sender 
cares  for  me  ;  she  does  not,  and  cannot^  for  she  does  not  know 
me ; — ^but  no  matter.  In  my  reminiscences  she  is  a  person 
of  a  certain  distinction.  I  think  hers  a  fine  little  nature, 
frank  and  of  genuine  promise.  I  often  see  her,  as  she  ap. 
peared,  stepping  supreme  from  the  portico  towards  the  car- 
riage, that  evening  we  went  to  see  '  Twelfth  Night.'  I 
believe  in  J.'s  future;  I  like  what  speaks  in  her  movements, 
and  what  is  written  upon  her  face."      •     , 


244  LIFE  OF  CHAKLOTTE  BRONTE. 

Towards  the  latter  end  of  September  I  went  to  Hawortli 
At  the  risk  of  repeating  something  which  I  have  previously 
gaid,  I  will  copy  out  parts  of  a  letter  which  I  wrote  at  the 
time. 

**  It  was  a  dull,  drizzly  Indian-inky  day,  all  the  way  on 
the  railroad  to  Keighley,  which  is  a  rising  wool-manufacturing 
town,  lying  in  a  hollow  between  hills — not  a  pretty  hollow, 
but  more  what  the  Yorkshire  people  call  a  *  bottom,'  or 
^  botham.'  I  left  Keighley  in  a  car  for  Haworth,  fcur  miles 
off — four  tough,  steep,  scrambling  miles,  the  road  winding 
between  the  wave-like  hills  that  rose  and  fell  on  every  side 
of  the  horizon,  with  a  long  illimitable  sinuous  look,  as  if  they 
were  a  part  of  the  line  of  the  Great  Serpent,  which  the  Norse 
legend  says  girdles  the  world.  The  day  was  lead-coloured  ; 
the  road  had  stone  factories  alongside  of  it, — ^grey,  dull- 
coloured  rows  of  stone  cottages  belonging  to  these  factories 
and  then  we  came  to  poor,  hungry-looking  fields; — stone 
fences  everywhere,  and  trees  nowhere.  Haworth  is  a  long, 
straggling  village :  one  steep  narrow  street — so  steep  that 
the  flag-stones  with  which  it  is  paved  are  placed  end-ways, 
that  the  horses'  feet  may  have  something  to  cling  to,  and  not 
slip  down  backwards ;  which,  if  they  did,  they  would  soon 
reach  Keighley.  But  if  the  horses  had  cats'  feet  and  claws, 
they  would  do  all  the  better.  Well,  we  (the  man,  horse, 
car,  and  I)  clambered  up  this  street,  and  reached  the  church 
dedicated  to  St.  Autest  (who  was  he  ?)  ;  then  we  turned  off 
into  a  lane  on  the  left,  past  the  curate's  lodging  at  the  Sex- 
ton's, past  the  school-house,  up  to  the  Parsonage  yard-door. 
I  went  round  the  house  to  the  front  door,  looking  to  the 
church; — moors  everywhere  beyond  and  above.  The  crowded 
grave-yard  surrounds  the  house  and  small  grass  enclosure  for 
drying  clothes. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  a  spot  more  exquisitely 


THE   biographer's    VISIT   TO   HAWORTII.  24!i 

clean ;  the  most  dainty  place  for  that  I  ever  saw.  To  be. 
sure,  the  life  is  like  clock-work.  No  one  comes  to  the  house ; 
nothing  disturbs  the  deep  repose ;  hardly  a  voice  is  heard  ; 
you  catch  the  ticking  of  the  clock  in  the  kitchen,  or  the  buz- 
zing of  a  fly  in  the  parlour,  all  over  the  house.  Miss  Bronte 
sits  alone  in  her  parlour ;  breakfasting  with  her  father  in  his 
study  at  nine  o'clock.  She  helps  in  the  iousework ;  for  one 
of  their  servants,  Tabby,  is  nearly  ninety,  and  the  other  only 
a  girl.  Then  I  accompanied  her  in  her  walks  on  the  sweep ' 
ing  moors :  the  heather-bloom  had  been  blighted  by  a  thunder- 
storm a  day  or  two  before,  and  was  all  of  a  livid  brown 
colour,  instead  of  the  blaze  of  purple  glory  it  ought  to  have 
been.  Oh  !  those  high,  wild,  desolate  moors,  up  above  the 
whole  world,  and  the  very  realms  of  silence  !  Home  to 
dinner  at  two.  Mr.  Eronte  has  dinner  sent  into  him.  All 
the  small  table  arrangements  had  the  same  dainty  simplicity 
about  them.  Then  we  rested,  and  talked  over  the  clear, 
bright  fire ;  it  is  a  cold  country,  and  the  fires  were  a  pretty 
warm  dancing  light  all  over  the  house.  The  parlour  has 
been  evidently  refurnished  within  the  last  few  years,  since 
Miss  Bronte's  success  has  enabled  her  to  have  a  little  more 
money  to  spend.  Everything  fits  into,  and  is  in  harmony  with, 
the  idea  of  a  country  parsonage,  possessed  by  people  of  very 
moderate  means.  The  prevailing  colour  of  the  room  is  crim- 
son, to  make  a  warm  setting  for  the  cold  grey  landscape 
without.  There  in  her  likeness  by  Eichmond,  and  an  en- 
graving from  Lawrence's  picture  of  Thackeray ;  and  two  re- 
cesses, on  each  side  of  the  high,  narrow,  old-fashioned  mantel- 
piece, filled  with  books, — books  given  to  her,  books  she  has 
bought,  and  which  tell  of  her  individual  pursuits  and  tastes  ; 
not  standard  books. 

"  She  cannot  see  well,  and  does  little  beside  knitting. 
The  way  she  weakened  her  eyesight  was  this  :  When  she  was 
sixteen  or  seventeen,  she  wanted  much  to  draw;  and  she 


246  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

copied  nimini-plmini  copper-plate  engraviugs  out  of  annuals , 
('  stippling,'  don't  the  artists  call  it  ?)  every  little  point  put 
in,  till  at  the  end  of  six  months  she  had  produced  an  ex- 
quisitely faithful  copy  of  the  engraving.  She  wanted  to  learn 
to  express  her  ideas  hy  drawing.  After  she  had  tried  to 
draw  stories,  and  not  succeeded,  she  took  the  better  mode  of 
writing ;  but  in  so  small  a  hand,  that  it  is  almost  impossible 
to  decipher  what  she  wrote  at  this  time. 

"  33ut  now  to  return  to  our  quiet  hour  of  rest  after  din- 
ner. I  soon  observed  that  her  habits  of  order  were  such  that 
she  could  not  go  on  with  the  conversation,  if  a  chair  was  out 
of  its  place ;  everything  was  arranged  with  delicate  regular- 
ity. We  talked  over  the  old  times  of  her  childhood ;  of  her 
elder  sister's  (Maria's)  death, — just  like  that  of  Helen  Burns 
in  ^  Jane  Eyre ; '  of  those  strange,  starved  days  at  school ; 
of  the  desire  (almost  amounting  to  illness)  of  expressing  her- 
self in  some  way, — ^writing  or  drawing;  of  her  weakened 
eyesight,  which  prevented  her  doing  anything  for  two  years, 
from  the  age  of  seventeen  to  nineteen;  of  her  being  a 
governess  ;  of  her  going  to  Brussels;  whereupon  I  said  I  dis- 
liked Lucy  Snowe.^  and  we  discussed  M.  Paul  Emanuel ;  and 

I  told  her  of 's  admiration  of  *  Shirley,'  which  pleased 

her,  for  the  character  of  Shirley  was  meant  for  her  sister 
Emily,  about  whom  she  is  never  tired  of  talking,  nor  I  of 
listening.  Emily  must  have  been  a  remnant  of  the  Titans, 
— ^great-gran  i-daughter  of  the  giants  who  used  to  inhabit 
earth.  One  day,  Miss  Bronte  brought  down  a  rough,  common- 
looking  oil-painting,  done  by  her  brother,  of  herself, — a 
little,  rather  prim-looking  girl  of  eighteen, — and  the  two 
other  sisters,  girls  of  sixteen  and  fourteen,  with  cropped  hair, 

and  sad,  dreamy-looking  eyes Emily  had  a  great 

dog, — half  mastiff,  half  bull-dog, — so  savage,  &c 

This  dog  went  to  her  funeral,  walking  side  by  side  with  her 


THE    BIOGKAPIIEr's   VISIT   TO   HAWORTII.  2i7 

father ;   and  then,  to  the  day  of  its  death,  it  slept  at  her 
room  door,  snuffing  under  it,  and  whining  every  morning. 

"  We  have  generally  had  another  walk  before  tea,  which 
is  at  six ;  at  half-past  eight,  prayers ;  and  by  nine,  all  the 
household  are  in  bed,  except  ourselves.  We  sit  up  together 
till  ten,  or  past;  and  after  I  go,  I  hear  Miss  Bronte  come 
down  and  walk  up  and  down  the  room  for  an  hour  or  so." 

Copying  this  letter  has  brought  the  days  of  that  pleasant 
visit  very  clear  before  me, — very  sad  in  their  clearness.  We 
were  so  happy  together ;  we  were  so  full  of  interest  in  each 
other's  subjects.  The  day  seemed  only  too  short  for  what 
we  had  to  say  and  to  hear.  I  understood  her  life  the  better 
for  seeing  the  place  where  it  had  been  spent — where  she  had 
loved  and  suffered.  Mr.  Bronte  was  a  most  courteous  host ; 
and  when  he  was  with  us, — at  breakfast  in  his  study,  or  at 
tea  in  Charlotte's  parlour, — he  had  a  sort  of  grand  and 
stately  way  of  describing  past  times,  which  tallied  well  with 
his  striking  appearance.  He  never  seemed  quite  to  have  lost 
the  feeling  that  Charlotte  was  a  child  to  be  guided  and  ruled, 
when  she  was  present;  and  she  herself  submitted  to  this  with 
a  quiet  docility  that  half  amused,  half  astonished  me.  But 
when  she  had  to  leave  the  room,  then  all  his  pride  in  her 
genius  and  fame  came  out.  He  eagerly  listened  to  every- 
thing I  could  tell  him  of  the  high  admiration  I  had  at  any 
time  heard  expressed  for  her  works.  He  would  ask  for  cer- 
tain speeches  over  and  over  again,  as  if  he  desired  to  impress 
them  on  his  memory. 

•  I  remember  two  or  three  subjects  of  the  conversations 
which  she  and  I  held  in  the  evenings,  besides  those  alluded 
to  in  my  letter. 

I  asked  her  whether  she  had  ever  taken  opium,  as  tho 
description  given  of  its  effects  in  "  Viliette '  was  so  exactly 
like  what  I  had  experienced,— vivid  and  exaggerated  pres- 


248  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

ence  of  objects,  of  wliicli  tlie  outlines  were  indistinct,  or  losH 
m  golden  mist,  &c.  She  replied,  that  she  had  never,  to  her 
knowledge,  taken  a  grain  of  it  in  any  shape,  but  that  she  had 
followed  the  process  she  always  adopted  when  she  had  to 
describe  anything  which  had  not  fallen  within  her  own  ex- 
perience ;  she  had  thought  intently  on  it  for  many  and  many 
a  night  before  falling  to  sleep, — wondering  what  it  was  like 
or  how  it  would  be, — till  at  length,  sometimes  after  the  pro- 
gress of  her  story  had  been  arrested  at  this  one  point  for 
weeks,  she  wakened  up  in  the  morning  with  all  clear  before 
her,  as  if  she  had  in  reality  gone  through  the  experience,  and 
then  could  describe  it,  word  for  word,  as  it  had  happened. 
I  cannot  account  for  this  psychologically ;  I  only  am  sure 
that  it  was  so,  because  she  said  it. 

She  made  many  inquiries  as  to  Mrs.  Stowe's  personal  ap- 
pearance ;  and  it  evidently  harmonised  well  with  some  theory 
of  hers,  to  hear  that  the  author  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  " 
was  small  and  slight.  It  was  another  theory  of  hers,  that 
no  mixtures  of  blood  produced  such  fine  characters,  mentally 
and  morally,  as  the  Scottish  and  English. 

I  recollect,  too,  her  saying  how  accutely  she  dreaded  a 
charge  of  plagiarism,  when,  after  she  had  written  "  Jane 
Eyre,"  she  read  the  thrilling  effect  of  the  mysterious  scream 
at  midnight  in  Mrs.  Marsh's  story  of  the  ^*  Deformed."  She 
also  said  that,  when  she  read  the  "  Neighbours,"  she  thought 
every  one  would  fancy  that  she  must  have  taken  her  concep- 
tion of  Jane  Eyre's  character  from  that  of  "  Francesca,"  the 
narrator  of  Miss  Bremer's  story.  For  my  own  part,  I  can  • 
not  see  the  slightest  resemblance  between  the  two  charac- 
ters, and  so  I  told  her;  but  she  persisted  in  saying  that 
Francesca  was  Jane  Eyre  married  to  a  good-natured  "  Bear  " 
of  a  Swedish  surgeon. 

We  went,  not  purposely,  but  accidentally,  to  see  various 
poor  people  in  our  distant  walks.    From  one  we  had  borrowed 


REMINISCENCES   OF   CONVERSATION.  249 

an  umbrella ;  in  the  house  of  another  we  had  taken  sheltei* 
from  a  rough  September  storm.  In  all  these  cottages,  her 
quiet  presence  was  known.  At  three  miles  from  her  home^ 
the  chair  was  dusted  for  her,  with  a  kindly  "  Sit  ye  down, 
Miss  Bronte ;  "  and  she  knew  what  absent  or  ailing  mem- 
bers of  the  family  to  inquire  after.  Her  quiet,  gentle  words, 
few  though  they  might  be,  were  evidently  grateful  to  thoso 
Yorkshire  ears.  Their  welcome  to  her,  though  rough  and 
curt,  was  sincere  and  hearty. 

We  talked  about  the  different  courses  through  which  life 
ran.  She  said,  in  her  own  composed  manner,  as  if  she  had 
accepted  the  theory  as  a  fact,  that  she  believed  some  were 
appointed  beforehand  to  sorrow  and  much  disappointment ; 
that  it  did  not  fall  to  the  lot  of  all — as  Scripture  told  us — ■ 
to  have  their  lines  fall  in  pleasant  places  ;  that  it  was  well 
for  those  who  had  rougher  paths,  to  perceive  that  such  was 
God's  will  concerning  them,  and  try  to  moderate  their  ex- 
pectations, leaving  hope  to  those  of  a  different  doom,  and 
seeking  patience  and  resignation  as  the  virtues  they  were  to 
cultivate.  I  took  a  different  view :  I  thought  that  human 
lots  were  more  equal  than  she  imagined ;  that  to  some  hap- 
piness and  sorrow  came  in  strong  patches  of  light  and  shad- 
ow, (so  to  speak,)  while  in  the  lives  of  others  they  were  pret- 
ty equally  blended  throughout.  She  smiled,  and  shook  her 
head,  and  said  she  was  trying  to  school  herself  against  ever 
anticipating  any  pleasure ;  that  it  was  better  to  be  brave  and 
submit  faithfully;  there  was  some  good  reason,  which  we 
should  know  in  time,  why  sorrow  and  disappointment  were 
to  be  the  lot  of  some  on  earth.  It  was  better  to  acknowledge 
this,  and  face  out  the  truth  in  a  religious  faith. 

In  connection  with  this  conversation,  she  named  a  little 

abortive  plan  which  I  had  not  heard  of  till  then ;  how,  in 

the  previous  July,  she  had  been  tempted  to  join  some  friends 

(a  married  couple  and  their  child)  in  an  excursion  to  Scot* 

VOL.  11 — 11* 


250  LIFE   OF   CIIAELOTTE   BRONTE. 

land.  They  set  out  joyfully ;  she  with  especial  gladness^ 
for  Scotland  was  a  land  which  had  its  roots  deep  down  in 
her  imaginative  affections,  and  the  glimpse  of  two  days  at 
Edinburgh  was  all  she  had  as  yet  seen  of  it.  But,  at  the 
first  stage  after  Carlisle,  the  little  yearling  child  was  taken 
with  a  slight  indisposition ;  the  anxious  parents  fancied  that 
strange  diet  disagreed  with  it,  and  hurried  back  to  their 
Yorkshire  home  as  eagerly  as,  two  or  three  days  before, 
they  had  set  their  faces  northward,  in  hopes  of  a  month's 
pleasant  ramble. 

We  parted  with  many  intentions,  on  both  sides,  of  renew- 
ing very  frequently  the  pleasure  we  had  had  in  being  togeth- 
er. We  agreed  that  when  she  wanted  bustle,  or  when  I 
wanted  quiet,  we  were  to  let  each  other  know,  and  exchange 
visits  as  occasion  required. 

I  was  aware  that  she  had  a  great  anxiety  on  her  mind  at 
this  time ;  and  being  acquainted  with  its  nature,  I  could  not 
but  deeply  admire  the  patient  docility  which  she  displayed 
in  her  conduct  towards  her  father. 

Soon  after  I  left  Haworth,  she  went  on  a  visit  to  Miss 
Wooler,  who  was  then  staying  at  Hornsea.  The  time  passed 
quietly  and  happily  with  this  friend,  whose  society  was  en- 
deared to  her  by  eT  ery  year. 

TO  MISS  WOOLEPv. 

*'Dec.  12tb,  1853. 
^'  I  wonder  how  you  are  spending  these  long  winter  eve- 
nings. Alone,  probably,  like  me.  The  thought  often  crosses 
me,  as  I  sit  by  myself,  how  pleasant  it  would  be  if  you  lived 
within  a  walking  distance,  and  I  could  go  to  you  sometimes, 
or  have  you  to  come  and  spend  a  day  and  night  with  me. 
Yes ;  I  did  enjoy  that  week  at  Hornsea,  and  I  look  forward 
to  spring  as  the  period  when  you  will  fulfil  your  promise  of 
Goming  to  visit  me,     I  fear  you  must  be  very  solitary  at 


LETTER   TO   MR.    DOBELL   ON    "  BALDER."  251 

Hornsea.  How  hard  to  some  people  of  the  world  it  would 
seem  to  live  your  life  !  how  utterly  impossible  to  live  it  with 
a  serene  spirit  and  an  unsoured  disposition  !  It  seems  won 
derful  to  me,  because  you  are  not,  like  Mrs. ,  phlegmat- 
ic and  impenetrable,  but  received  from  nature  feelings  of  the 
very  finest  edge.  Such  feelings,  when  they  are  locked  up, 
sometimes  damage  the  mind  and  temper.  They  don't  with 
you.  It  must  be  partly  principle,  partly  self-discipline, 
which  keeps  ^^ou  as  you  are.-' 

Of  course,  as  I  draw  nearer  to  the  years  so  recently 
closed,  it  becomes  impossible  for  me  to  write  with  the  same 
fulness  of  detail  as  I  have  hitherto  not  felt  it  wrong  to  use. 
Miss  Bronte  passed  the  winter  of  1853-4  in  a  solitary  and 
anxious  manner.  But  the  great  conqueror  Time  was  slowly 
achieving  his  victory  over  strong  prejudice  and  human  re- 
solve. By  degrees  Mr.  Bronte  became  reconciled  to  the 
idea  of  his  daughter's  marriage. 

There  is  one  other  letter,  addressed  to  Mr.  Dobell,  which 
developes  the  intellectual  side  of  her  character,  before  we 
lose  all  thought  of  the  authoress  in  the  timid  and  conscien- 
tious woman  about  to  become  a  wife,  and  in  the  too  short, 
almost  perfect,  happiness  of  her  nine  months  of  wedded 
life. 

*'  Haworth,  near  Keighley, 

^'Feb.  8rd,  1854. 

"  My  dear  Sir, — I  can  hardly  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  explaining  that  taciturnity  to  which 
you  allude.  Your  letter  came  at  a  period  of  danger  and 
care,  when  my  father  was  very  ill,  and  I  could  not  leave  his 
bedside.  I  answered  no  letters  at  that  time,  and  yours  was 
one  of  three  or  four  that,  when  leisure  returned  to  me,  and 
I  came  to  consider  their  purport,  it  seemed  to  me  guch  that 


252  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BKONTE. 

the  time  was  passed  for  answering  them,  and  I  laid  them 
finally  aside.  If  you  remember,  you  asked  me  to  go  to 
London ;  it  was  too  late  either  to  go  or  to  decline.  I  was 
sure  you  had  left  London.  One  circumstance  you  mentioned 
— your  wife's  illness — which  I  have  thought  of  many  a  time, 
and  wondered  whether  she  is  better.  In  your  present  note 
you  do  not  refer  to  her,  but  I  trust  her  health  has  long  ere 
now  been  quite  restored. 

"  '  Balder '  arrived  safely.  I  looke  i  at  him,  before  cut- 
ting his  leaves,  with  singular  pleasure.  Eemembering  well 
his  elder  brother,  the  potent  *  Koman,'  it  was  natural  to  give 
a  cordial  welcome  to  a  fresh  scion  of  the  same  house  and 
race.  I  have  read  him.  He  impressed  me  thus  :  he  teems 
with  power ;  I  found  in  him  a  wild  wealth  of  life,  but  I 
thought  his  favourite  and  favoured  child  would  bring  his 
sire  trouble — would  make  his  heart  ache.  It  seemed  to  mc, 
that  his  strength  and  beauty  were  not  so  much  those  of 
Joseph,  the  pillar  of  Jacob's  age,  as  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  who 
troubled  his  father,  though  he  always  kept  his  love. 

*'  How  is  it  that  while  the  first-born  of  genius  often  brings 
honour,  the  second  as  almost  often  proves  a  source  of  depres- 
sion and  care  ?  I  could  almost  prophesy  that  your  third 
will  atone  for  any  anxiety  inflicted  by  this  his  immediate 
predecessor. 

*'  There  is  power  in  that  character  of  ^  Balder,'  and  to 
me  a  certain  horror.  Did  you  mean  it  to  embody,  along 
with  force,  any  of  the  special  defects  of  the  artistic  charac- 
ter ?  It  seems  to  me  that  those  defects  were  never  thrown 
out  in  stronger  lines.  I  did  not  and  could  not  think  you 
meant  to  ofi'er  him  as  your  cherished  ideal  of  the  true,  great 
poet ;  I  regarded  him  as  a  vividly-coloured  picture  of  inflated 
$jelf-esteem,  almost  frantic  aspiration ;  of  a  nature  that  has 
made  a  Moloch  of  intellect  —  offered  up,  in  pagan  fires,  the 
natural  affections  —  sacrificed  the  heart  to  the  brain.     Be 


LETTER   TO   A   SCHOOLFELLOW.  253 

wc  not  all  know  that  true  greatness  is  simple,  self-oblivious, 
prone  to  unambitious,  unselfish  attachments  ?  I  am  certain 
you  feel  this  truth  in  your  heart  of  hearts. 

*^  But  if  the  critics  err  now  (as  yet  I  have  seen  none  of 
their  lucubrations),  you  shall  one  day  set  them  right  in  the 
second  part  of  *  Balder.'  You  shall  show  them  that  you  too 
know  —  better,  perhaps,  than  they  —  that  the  truly  great 
man  is  too  sincere  in  his  affections  to  grudge  a  sacrifice ;  too 
much  absorbed  in  his  work  to  talk  loudly  about  it ;  too  in- 
tent on  finding  the  best  way  to  accomplish  what  he  under- 
takes to  think  great  things  of  himself —  the  instruuient. 
And  if  Grod  places  seeming  impediments  in  his  way  —  if  his 
duties  sometimes  seem  to  hamper  his  powers  —  he  feels  keen- 
ly, perhaps  writhes,  under  the  slow  torture  of  hindrance  and 
delay ;  but  if  there  be  a  true  man's  heart  in  his  breast,  he 
can  bear,  submit,  wait  patiently. 

"  Whoever  speaks  to  me  of  '  Balder  '  —  though  I  live  too 
retired  a  life  to  come  often  in  the  way  of  comment  —  shall 
be  answered  according  to  your  suggestion  and  my  own  im- 
pression. Equity  demands  that  you  should  be  your  own  in 
terpre^.er.  Goodbye  for  the  present,  and  believe  me, 
"  Faithfully  and  gratefully, 
"  Charlotte  Beonte. 

''  Sydney  Dobell,  Esq." 

A  letter  to  her  Brussels  schoolfellow  gives  an  idea  of  the 
external  course  of  things  during  this  winter. 

"  March  8th. 
"  I  was  very  glad  to  see  your  handwriting  again.  It  is, 
I  believe,  a  year  since  I  heard  from  you.  Again  and  again 
you  have  recurred  to  my  thoughts  lately,  and  1  was  begin 
niug  to  have  some  sad  presages  as  to  the  cause  of  your  si 
lence.     Your  letter  happily  does  away  with  all  these;  it 


254  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BEONTE. 

brings,  on  the  whole,  glad  tidings  both  of  your  papa,  luamaj 
your  sisters,  and  last,  but  not  least,  your  dear  respected  Eng- 
lish self. 

"  My  dear  father  has  borne  the  severe  winter  very  well, 
a  circumstance  for  which  I  feel  the  more  thankful  as  he  had 
many  weeks  of  very  precarious  health  last  summer,  following 
an  attack  from  which  he  suffered  in  June,  and  which  for  a 
few  hours  deprived  him  totally  of  sight,  though  neither  his 
mind,  speech,  nor  even  his  powers  of  motion  were  in  the  least 
affected.  I  can  hardly  tell  you  how  thankful  I  was,  when, 
after  that  dreary  and  almost  despairing  interval  of  utter 
darkness,  some  gleam  of  daylight  became  visible  to  him  once 
more.  I  had  feared  that  paralysis  had  seized  the  optic  nerve. 
A  sort  of  mist  remained  for  a  long  time ;  and,  indeed,  his 
vision  is  not  yet  perfectly  clear,  but  he  can  read,  write,  and 
walk  about,  and  he  preaches  twice  every  Sunday,  the  curate 
only  reading  the  prayers.  You  can  well  understand  how  ear- 
nestly I  wish  and  pray  that  sight  may  be  spared  him  to  the 
end ;  he  so  dreads  the  privation  of  blindness.  His  mind  is 
just  as  strong  and  active  as  ever,  and  politics  interest  him  as 
they  do  your  papa.  The  Czar,  the  war,  the  alliance  between 
France  and  England— into  all  these  things  he  throws  himself 
heart  and  soul ;  they  seem  to  carry  him  back  to  his  compar- 
atively young  days,  and  to  renew  the  excitement  of  the  last 
great  European  struggle.  Of  course  my  father's  sympathies 
(and  mine  too)  are  all  with  Justice  and  Europe,  against  Ty- 
ranny and  Russia. 

'*  Circumstanced  as  I  have  been,  you  will  comprehend 
that  I  have  had  neither  the  leisure  nor  the  inclination  to  go 
from  home  much  during  the  past  year.  I  spent  a  week  with 
Mrs.  Gaskell  in  the  spring,  and  a  fortnight  with  some  other 
friends  more  recently,  and  that  includes  the  whole  of  my 
visiting  since  I  saw  you  last.  My  life  is,  indeed,  very  uni- 
form and  retired— more  so  than  is  quite  healthful  either  for 


HER    ENGAGEMENT   TO   MR.    NICHOLLS.  255 

mind  or  body ;  yet  I  find  reason  for  often-renewed  feelings 
of  gratitude,  in  the  sort  of  support  which  still  comes  and 
cheers  me  on  from  time  to  time.  My  health,  though  not  un 
broken,  is,  I  sometimes  fancy,  rather  stronger  on  the  whole 
than  it  was  three  years  ago  :  headache  and  dyspepsia  are  my 
worst  ailments.  Whether  I  shall  come  up  to  town  this  sea- 
son for  a  few  days  I  do  not  yet  know ;  but  if  I  do,  I  shall 
hope  to  call  in  P.  Place." 

In  April  she  communicated  the  fact  of  her  engagement 
to  Miss  Wooler. 

"Haworth,  April  12th. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Wooler, — The  truly  kind  interest  which 
you  have  always  taken  in  my  affairs  makes  me  feel  that  it  is 
due  to  you  to  transmit  an  early  communication  on  a  subject 
respecting  which  I  have  already  consulted  you  more  than 
once.  I  must  tell  you  then  that,  since  I  wrote  last,  papa's 
mind  has  gradually  come  round  to  a  view  very  different  to 
that  which  he  once  took ;  and  that  after  some  correspondence, 
and  as  the  result  of  a  visit  Mr.  Nicholls  paid  here  about  a 
week  ago,  it  was  agreed  that  he  was  to  resume  the  curacy  of 
Haworth,  as  soon  as  papa's  present  assistant  is  provided  with 
a  situation  and  in  due  course  of  time  he  is  to  be  received  as 
an  inmate  into  this  house. 

"  It  gives  me  unspeakable  content  to  see  that  now  my 
farther  has  once  admitted  this  new  view  of  the  case,  he  dwells 
on  it  very  complacently.  In  all  arrangements,  his  conven- 
ience and  seclusion  will  be  scrupulously  respected.  Mr. 
Nicholls  seems  deeply  to  feel  the  wish  to  comfort  and  sustain 
his  declining  years.  I  think  from  Mr.  Nicholls'  character  I 
may  depend  on  this  not  being  a  mere  transitory  impulsive 
feeling,  but  rather  that  it  will  be  accepted  steadily  as  a  duty, 
and  discharged  tenderly  as  an  office  of  affection.     The  des' 


256  LIFE   V.I?    CHAKLOTTE   BEONXfi. 

tiny  which  Providence  in  His  goodness  and  wisdom  seems  t<i 
offer  me  will  not,  I  am  aware,  be  generally  regarded  as  bril- 
liant,  but  I  trust  I  see  in  it  some  germs  of  real  happiness. 
I  trust  the  demands  of  both  feeling  and  duty  will  be  in  some 
measure  reconciled  by  the  step  in  contemplation.  It  is  Mr. 
Nicholls'  wish  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  this  sum- 
mer ;  he  urges  the  month  of  July,  but  that  seems  very  soon. 
"  When  you  write  to  me,  tell  me  how  you  are.  .  .  I 
have  now  decidedly  declined  the  visit  to  London  ;  the  ensuing 
three  months  will  bring  me  abundance  of  occupation ;  I  could 
not  afford  to  throw  away  a  month.  .  •  Papa  has  just  got 
a  letter  from  the  good  and  dear  bishop,  which  has  touched 
and  pleased  us  much ;  it  expresses  so  cordial  an  approbation 
of  Mr.  NichoUs'  return  to  Haworth  (respecting  which  he  was 
consulted),  and  such  kind  gratification  at  the  domestic  ar- 
rangements which  are  to  ensue.  It  seems  his  penetration  dis- 
covered the  state  of  things  when  he  was  here  in  June  1853." 

She  expressed  herself  in  other  letters,  as  thankful  to  One 
who  had  guided  her  through  much  difficulty,  and  much  dis- 
tress and  perplexity  of  mind ;  and  yet  she  felt  what  most 
thoughtful  women  do,  who  marry  when  the  first  flush  of  care- 
less youth  is  over,  that  there  was  a  strange,  half-sad  feeling, 
in  making  announcements  of  an  engagement — for  cares  and 
fears  came  mingled  inextricably  with  hopes.  One  great  re- 
lief to  her  mind  at  this  time  was  derived  from  the  conviction 
that  her  father  took  a  positive  pleasure  in  all  the  thoughts 
about  and  preparations  for  her  wedding.  He  was  anxious 
that  things  should  be  expedited,  and  was  much  interested  in 
every  preliminary  arrangement  for  the  reception  of  Mr. 
Nicholls  into  the  Parsonage  as  his  daughter's  husband.  This 
step  was  rendered  necessary  by  Mr.  Bronte's  g^-eat  age  and 
failing  sight,  .which  made  it  a  paramount  obligation  on  so 
dutiful  a  daughter  as  Charlotte,  to  devote  as  much  time  and 


PEEPARATI0N8   FOR   HER   MARRIAGE.  257 

assistance  as  ever  in  attending  to  his  wants.  Mr.  NicLolls, 
too,  hoped  that  he  might  be  able  to  add  some  comfort  and 
pleasure  by  his  ready  presence,  on  any  occasion  when  the 
old  clergyman  might  need  his  services. 

At  the  beginning  of  May,  Miss  Bronte  left  home  to  pay 
three  visits  before  her  marriage.  The  first  was  to  us.  She 
only  remained  three  days,  as  she  had  to  go  to  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Leeds,  there  to  make  such  purchases  as  were  re- 
quired for  her  marriage.  Her  preparations,  as  she  said, 
could  neither  be  expensive  nor  extensive  ;  consisting  chiefly 
in  a  modest  replenishing  of  her  wardrobe,  some  re-papering 
and  re-painting  in  the  Parsonage;  and,  above  all,  converting 
the  small  flagged  passage-room,  hitherto  used  only  for  stores 
(which  was  behind  her  sitting-room),  into  a  study  for  her 
husband.  On  this  idea,  and  plans  for  his  comfort,  as  well 
as  her  father's,  her  mind  dwelt  a  good  deal ;  and  we  talked 
them  over  with  the  same  unwearying  happiness  which,  T  sup- 
pose, all  women  feel  in  such  discussions — especially  when 
money  considerations  call  for  that  kind  of  contrivance  which 
Charles  Lamb  speaks  of  in  his  "  Essay  on  Old  China,"  as 
forming  so  great  an  addition  to  the  pleasure  of  obtaining  a 
thing  at  last. 

*'  Haworth,  May  22nd. 
"  Since  I  came  home  I  have  been  very  busy  stitching; 
the  little  new  room  is  got  into  order,  and  the  green  and  white 
curtains  are  up ;  they  exactly  suit  the  papering,  and  look 
neat  and  clean  enough.  I  had  a  letter  a  day  or  two  since, 
announcing  that  Mr.  NichoUs  comes  to-morrow.  I  feel  anx- 
ious about  him ;  more  anxious  on  one  point  than  I  dare 
quite  express  to  myself.  It  seems  he  has  again  been  suffer- 
ing sharply  from  his  rheumatic  affection.  I  hear  this  not 
from  himself,  but  from  another  quarter.  He  was  ill  while 
I  was  in  Manchester  and  B .     He  uttered  no  complaint 


258  LIFE   OF   CHAEI.OTTE   BEONTE. 

to  me ;  dropped  no  hint  on  the  subject.  Alas !  he  was 
hoping  he  had  got  the  better  of  it,  and  I  know  how  this  con- 
tradiction of  his  hopes  will  sadden  him.  For  unselfish  reasons 
he  did  so  earnestly  wish  this  complaint  might  not  become 
chronic.  I  fear — I  fear ,  but  if  he  is  doomed  to  suffer,  so 
much  the  more  will  he  need  care  and  help.  Well !  come 
what  may,  God  help  and  strengthen  both  him  and  me  !  I 
look  forward  to  to-morrow  with  a  mixture  of  impatience  and 
anxiety." 

Mr.  Bronte  had  a  slight  illness  which  alarmed  her  much. 
Besides,  all  the  weight  of  care  involved  in  the  household 
preparations  pressed  on  the  bride  in  this  case — ^not  unpleas- 
antly, only  to  the  full  occupation  of  her  time.  She  was  too 
busy  to  unpack  her  wedding  dresses  for  several  days  after 
they  arrived  from  Halifax ;  yet  not  too  busy  to  think  of  ar- 
rangements by  which  Miss  Wooler's  journey  to  be  present  at 
the  marriage  could  be  facilitated. 

"  I  write  to  Miss  Wooler  to-day.  Would  it  not  be  bet- 
ter, dear,  if  you  and  she  could  arrange  to  come  to  Haworth 
on  the  same  day,  arrive  at  Keighley  by  the  same  train ;  then 
I  could  order  the  cab  to  meet  you  at  the  station,  and  bring 
you  on  with  your  luggage  ?  In  this  hot  weather  walking 
would  be  quite  out  of  the  question,  either  for  you  or  for  her ; 
and  I  know  she  would  persist  in  doing  it  if  left  to  herself, 
and  arrive  half  killed.  I  thought  it  better  to  mention  this 
arrangement  to  you  first,  and  then,  if  you  liked  it,  you  could 
settle  the  time,  &c.  with  Miss  Wooler,  and  let  me  know. 
Be  sure  and  give  me  timely  information,  that  I  may  write  to 
the  Devonshire  Arms  about  the  cab. 

"  Mr.  Nicholls  is  a  kind,  considerate  fellow.  With  all 
his  masculine  faults,  he  enters  into  my  wishes  about  having 
the  thing  done  quietly,  in  a  way  that  makes  mo  grateful  ' 


HER   MAERIAGE.  259 

and  if  nobody  interferes  and  spoils  his  arrangements,  he  will 
manage  it  so  that  not  a  soul  in  Haworth  shall  be  aware  of 
the  day.  He  is  so  thoughtful,  too,  about  ^  the  ladies,' — that 
is,  you  and  Miss  Wooler.  Anticipating,  too,  the  very  ar- 
rangements I  was  going  to  propose  to  him  about  providing 

for  your  departure,  &c.     He  and  Mr.  S come  to  ■ 

the  evening  before ;  write  me  a  note  to  let  me  know  they  are 
there ;  precisely  at  eight  in  the  morning  they  will  be  in  the 
church,  and  there  we  are  to  meet  them.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grant 
are  asked  to  the  breakfast,  not  to  the  ceremony." 

It  was  jSxed  that  the  marriage  was  to  take  place  on  the 
29th  of  June.  Her  two  friends  arrived  at  Haworth  Parson- 
age the  day  before ;  and  the  long  summer  afternoon  and 
evening  were  spent  by  Charlotte  in  thoughtful  arrangements 
for  the  morrow,  and  for  her  father's  comfort  during  her  ab- 
sence from  home.  When  all  was  finished — the  trunk  packed, 
the  morning's  breakfast  arranged,  the  wedding-dress  laid  out, 
— just  at  bedtime,  Mr.  Bronte  announced  his  intention  of 
stopping  at  home  while  the  others  went  to  church.  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  Who  was  to  give  the  bride  away  ?  There 
were  only  to  be  the  officiating  clergyman,  the  bride  and 
bridegroom,  the  bridesmaid,  and  Miss  Wooler  present.  The 
Prayer-book  was  referred  to ;  and  there  it  was  seen  that  the 
Rubric  enjoins  that  the  Minister  shall  receive  "  the  woman 
from  her  father's  or  friend's  hands,"  and  that  nothing  ia 
specified  as  to  the  sex  of  the  ^  friend."  So  Miss  Wooler, 
ever  kind  in  emergency,  volunteered  to  give  her  old  pupil 
away. 

The  news  of  the  wedding  had  slipt  abroad  before  the  lit- 
tle party  came  out  of  church,  and  many  old  and  humble 
friends  were  there,  seeing  her  look  "  like  a  snow-drop,"  as 
they  say.  Her  dress  was  white  embroidered  muslin,  with 
a  lace  mantle,  and  white  bonnet  trimmed  with  green  leaves, 


260  LIFE   OF   CIIARLOrTE   BRONTE. 

whicli  perhaps  miglit  suggest  the  resemblance  to  the  pala 
wintry  flower. 

Mr.  Nicholls  and  she  went  to  visit  his  friends  and  rehi- 
tions  in  Ireland ;  and  made  a  tour  by  Killarney,  Glengariff, 
Tarbert,  Tralee,  and  Cork,  seeing  scenery,  of  which  she 
says,  "  some  parts  exceeded  all  I  had  ever  imagined."  .... 
*'  I  must  say  I  like  my  new  relations.  My  dear  husband, 
too,  appears  in  a  new  light  in  his  own  country.  More  than 
once  I  have  had  deep  pleasure  in  hearing  his  praises  on  all 
sides.  Some  of  the  old  servants  and  followers  of  the  family 
tell  me  I  am  a  most  fortunate  person ;  for  that  I  have  got 

one  of  the  best  gentlemen  in  the  country I  trust  I 

feel  thankful  to  God  for  having  enabled  me  to  make  what 
seems  a  right  choice ;  and  I  pray  to  be  enabled  to  repay  as 
1  ought  the  affectionate  devotion  of  a  truthful,  honourable 
man." 

Henceforward  the  sacred  doors  of  home  are  closed  upon 
her  married  life.  We,  her  loving  friends,  standing  outside, 
caught  occasional  glimpses  of  brightness,  and  pleasant  peace- 
ful murmurs  of  sound,  telling  of  the  gladness  within ;  and 
we  looked  at  each  other,  and  gently  said,  "  After  a  hard  and 
long  struggle — after  many  cares  and  many  bitter  sorrows- 
she  is  tasting  happiness  now !  "  We  thought  of  the  slight  as- 
tringencies  of  her  character,  and  how  they  would  turn  to  full 
ripe  sweetness  in  that  calm  sunshine  of  domestic  peace.  We 
remembered  her  trials,  and  were  glad  in  the  idea  that  God 
had  seen  fit  to  wipe  away  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  Those 
who  saw  her,  saw  an  outward  change  in  her  look,  telling  of 
inward  things.  And  we  thought,  and  we  hoped,  and  we 
prophesied,  in  our  great  love  and  reverence. 

But  God's  ways  are  not  as  our  ways  ! 

Hear  some  of  the  low  murmurs  of  happinesss  we,  who 
listened,  heard: — 


•WEDDED   HAPPINESS.  261 

"  I  really  seem  to  have  had  scarcely  a  spare  moment  since 

that  dim  quiet  June  morning,  when  you,  E ,  and  myself 

all  walked  down  to  Haworth  Church.  Not  that  I  have  been 
wearied  or  oppressed ;  but  the  fact  is,  my  time  is  not  my 
own  now ;  somebody  else  wants  a  good  portion  of  it,  and 
says,  *  we  must  do  so  and  so.'  We  do  so  and  so,  accord- 
ingly ;  and  it  generally  seems  the  right  thing We 

have  had  many  callers  from  a  distance,  and  latterly  some 
little  occupation  in  the  way  of  preparing  for  a  small  village 
entertainment.  Both  Mr.  Nicholls  and  myself  wished  much 
to  make  some  response  for  the  hearty  welcome  and  general 
goodwill  shown  by  the  parishioners  on  his  return ;  accord- 
ingly, the  Sunday  and  day  scholars  and  teachers,  the  church- 
ringers,  singers,  &c.,  to  the  number  of  five  hundred,  were 
asked  to  tea  and  supper  in  the  School-room.  They  seemed 
to  enjoy  it  much,  and  it  was  very  pleasant  to  see  their  hap- 
piness. One  of  the  villagers,  in  proposing  my  husband's 
health,  described  him  as  a  '  consistent  Christian  and  a  kind 
gentleman.'*  I  own  the  words  touched  me  deeply,  and  I 
thought  (as  I  know  you  would  have  thought  had  you  been 
present)  that  to  merit  and  win  such  a  character  was  better 
than  to  earn  either  wealth,  or  fame,  or  power.    I  am  disposed 

to  echo  that  high  but  simple  eulogium My  dear 

father  was  net  well  when  we  returned  from  Ireland.  I  am, 
however,  most  thankful  to  say  that  he  is  better  now.  May 
God  preserve  him  to  us  yet  for  some  years  !  The  wish  for  his 
continued  life,  together  with  a  certain  solicitude  for  his  hap- 
piness and  health,  seems,  I  scarcely  know  why,  even  stronger 
in  me  now  inan  before  I  was  married.  Papa  has  taken  no 
duty  since  we  returned ;  and  each  time  I  see  Mr.  Nicholls 
put  on  gown  or  surplice,  I  feel  comforted  to  think  that  this 
marriage  has  ?»€ cured  papa  good  aid  in  his  old  age." 


262  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

"September  lOtli. 
"  Yes  !  I  am  tliankful  to  say  my  husband  is  in  improved 
health  and  spirits.  It  makes  me  content  and  grateful  to 
hear  him  from  time  to  time  avow  his  happiness  in  the  brief, 
plain  phrase  of  sincerity.  My  own  life  is  more  occupied 
than  it  used  to  be  :  I  have  not  so  much  time  for  thinking : 
I  am  obliged  to  be  more  practical,  for  my  dear  Arthur  is  a 
very  practical,  as  well  as  a  very  punctual  and  methodical 
man.  Every  morning  he  is  in  the  National  School  by  nine 
o'clock  ;  he  gives  the  children  religious  instruction  till  half- 
past  ten.  Almost  every  afternoon  he  pays  visits  amongst  the 
poor  parishioners.  Of  course,  he  often  finds  a  little  work 
for  his  wife  to  do,  and  I  hope  she  is  not  sorry  to  help  him. 
I  believe  it  is  not  bad  for  me  that  his  bent  should  be  so 
wholly  towards  matters  of  life  and  active  usefulness ;  so  little 
inclined  to  the  literary  and  contemplative.  As  to  his  con- 
tinued affection  and  kind  attentions,  it  does  not  become 
me  to  say  much  of  them ;  but  they  neither  change  nor 
diminish." 

Her  friend  and  bridesmaid  came  to  pay  them  a  visit  in 
October.  I  was  to  have  gone  also,  but  I  allowed  some  little 
obstacle  to  intervene,  to  my  lasting  regret. 

"  I  say  nothing  about  the  war ;  but  when  I  read  of  its 
horrors,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  it  is  one  of  the  greatest 
curses  that  ever  fell  upon  mankind.  I  trust  it  may  not  last 
long,  for  it  really  seems  to  me  that  no  glory  to  be  gained  can 
compensate  for  the  sufferings  which  must  be  endured.  This 
may  seem  a  little  ignoble  and  unpatriotic ;  but  I  think  that 
as  we  advance  towards  middle  age,  nobleness  and  patriotism 
have  a  different  signification  to  us  to  that  which  we  accept 
while  young. 

"  You  kindly  inquire  after  Papa.  He  i^i  better,  and  seema 


VISIT   FROM   SIR   JAMES   KAY   SHUTTLE  WORTH.        263 

to  gain  strength  as  the  weather  gets  colder ;  indeed,  of  late 
years  his  health  has  always  been  better  in  winter  than  in 
summer.  We  are  all  indeed  pretty  well ;  and,  for  my  own 
part,  it  is  long  since  I  have  known  such  comparative  im- 
munity from  headache,  &c.,  as  during  the  last  three  months. 
My  life  is  different  from  what  it  used  to  be.  May  God  make 
me  thankful  for  it!  I  have  a  good,  kind,  attached  hus- 
band; and  every  day  my  own  attachment  to  him  grows 
stronger." 

Late  in  the  autumn.  Sir  James  Kay  Shuttleworth  crossed 
the  border-hills  that  separate  Lancashire  from  Yorkshire, 
and  spent  two  or  three  days  with  them. 

About  this  time,  Mr.  Nicholls  was  offered  a  living  of 
much  greater  value  than  his  curacy  at  Haworth,  and  in  many 
ways  the  proposal  was  a  very  advantageous  one  ;  but  he  felt 
himself  bound  to  Haworth  as  long  as  Mr.  Bronte  lived. 
Still,  this  offer  gave  his  wife  great  and  true  pleasure,  as  a 
proof  of  the  respect  in  which  her  husband  was  held. 

"Nov.  29. 
"  I  intended  to  have  written  a  line  yesterday,  but  just 
as  I  was  sitting  down  for  the  purpose,  Arthur  called  to  me 
to  take  a  walk.  "We  set  off,  not  intending  to  go  far ;  but, 
though  wild  and  cloudy,  it  was  fair  in  the  morning;  when 
we  had  got  about  half  a  mile  on  the  moors,  Arthur  suggested 
the  idea  of  the  waterfall ;  after  the  melted  snow,  he  said,  it 
would  be  fine.  I  had  often  wished  to  see  it  in  its  winter 
power, — so  we  walked  on.  It  was  fine  indeed ;  a  perfect 
torrent  racing  over  the  rocks,  white  and  beautiful !  It  be- 
gan to  rain  while  we  were  watching  it,  and  wo  returned 
home  under  a  streaming  sky.  However,  I  enjoyed  the  walk 
inexpressibly,  and  would  not  have  missed  the  spectacle  on  any 
account." 


264  LIFE  OF  CHAELOTTE  BEONTE. 

She  did  not  achieve  this  walk  of  seven  or  eight  miles,  in 
such  weather,  with  impunity.  She  began  to  shiver  soon  after 
her  return  home,  in  spite  of  every  precaution,  and  had  a  bad 
lingering  sorethroat  and  cold,  which  hung  about  her,  and 
made  her  thin  and  weak. 

*^  Did  I  tell  you  that  our  poor  little  Flossy  is  dead  ?  She 
drooped  for  a  single  day,  and  died  quietly  in  the  night  with- 
out pain.  The  loss  even  of  a  dog  was  very  saddening ;  yet, 
perhaps,  no  dog  ever  had  a  happier  life,  or  an  easier  death." 

On  Christmas-day  she  and  her  husband  walked  to  the  poor 
old  woman  (whose  calf  she  had  been  set  to  seek  in  former 
and  less  happy  days),  carrying  with  them  a  great  spice-cake 
to  make  glad  her  heart.  On  Christmas-day  many  a  humble 
meal  in  Haworth  was  made  more  plentiful  by  her  gifts. 

Early  in  the  new  year  (1855),  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nicholls 
went  to  visit  Sir  James  Kay  Shuttleworth  at  Gawthorpe. 
They  only  remained  two  or  three  days,  but  it  so  fell  out  that 
she  increased  her  lingering  cold,  by  a  long  walk  over  damp 
ground  in  thin  shoes. 

Soon  after  her  return,  she  was  attacked  by  new  sensations 
of  perpetual  nausea,  and  ever-recurring  faintness.  After  this 
state  of  things  had  lasted  for  some  time,  she  yielded  to  Mr. 
Nicholl's  wish  that  a  doctor  should  be  sent  for.  He  came, 
and  assigned  a  natural  cause  for  her  miserable  indisposition ; 
a  little  patience;  and  all  would  go  right.  She  who  was  ever 
patient  in  illness,  tried  hard  to  bear  up  and  bear  on.  But 
the  dreadful  sickness  increased  and  increased,  till  the  very 
sio-ht  of  food  occasioned  nausea.  "  A  wren  would  have 
starved  on  what  she  ate  during  those  last  six  weeks,"  says 
one.  Tabby's  health  had  suddenly  and  utterly  given  way, 
and  she  died  in  this  time  of  distress  and  anxiety  respecting 


HEK   LAST   LETTEES.  265 

the  last  daugliter  of  the  house  she  had  served  long.  Martha 
tenderly  waited  on  her  mistress,  and  from  time  to  time  tried  to 
cheer  her  with  the  thought  of  the  baby  that  was  coming.  "  I 
dare  say  I  shall  be  glad  sometime,"  she  would  say ;  "  but  I  am 
so  ill  —  so  weary  — ''  Then  she  took  to  her  bed,  too  weak 
to  sit  up.  From  that  last  couch  she  wrote  two  notes  —  in 
pencil.  The  first,  which  has  no  date,  is  addressed  to  her 
own  "  Dear  Nell."  ^ 

^'I  must  write  one  line  out  cf  my  dreary  bed.      The 

hews  of  M 's  probable  recovery  came  like  a  ray  of  joy  to 

me.  I  am  not  going  to  talk  of  my  sufferings  —  it  would  be 
useless  and  painful.  I  want  to  give  you  an  assurance,  which 
I  know  will  comfort  you  —  and  that  is,  that  I  find  in  my 
husband  the  tenderest  nurse,  the  kindest  support,  the  best 
earthly  comfort  that  ever  woman  had.  His  patience  never 
fails,  and  it  is  tried  by  sad  days  and  broken  nights.     Write 

and  tell  me  about  Mrs. 's  case ;  how  long  was  she  ill, 

and  in  what  way  ?  Papa  —  thank  God  !  —  is  better.  Our 
poor  old  Tabby  is  dead  and  buried.  Give  my  kind  love  to 
Miss  Wooler.     May  God  comfort  and  help  you. 

^'  C.   B.  NiCIIOLLS." 

The  other  —  also  in  faint,  faint  pencil  marks  —  was  to 
her  Brussels  schoolfellow. 

^'Feb.  15th. 
"  A  few  lines  of  acknowledgment  your  letter  shall  have, 
whether  well  or  ill.  At  present  I  am  confined  to  my  bed 
with  illness,  and  have  been  so  for  three  weeks.  Up  to  this 
period  since  my  marriage,  I  have  had  excellent  health.  My 
husband  and  I  live  at  home  with  my  father ;  of  course,  I 
could  not  leave  him.  He  is  pretty  well,  better  than  last 
summer.     No  kinder,  better  husband  than  mine,  it  seems  to 

VOL.  II — 12 


266-  LIFE  OF  CHAKLOTTE  BRONTE. 

me,  there  can  be  in  the  world.  I  do  not  want  now  for  kind 
companionship  in  health  and  the  tenderest  nursing  in  sickness. 
Deeply  I  sympathise  in  all  you  tell  me  about  Dr.  W.  and 
your  excellent  mother's  anxiety.  I  trust  he  will  not  risk 
another  operation.  I  cannot  wrote  more  now ;  for  I  am 
much  reduced  and  very  weak.  God  bless  you  all. — Yours 
afifectionately, 

"C.  B.  NlCHOLLS." 

I  do  not  think  she  ever  wrote  a  line  again.  Long  days 
and  longer  nights  went  by ;  still  the  same  relentless  nausea 
and  faintness,  and  still  borne  on  in  patient  trust.  About  the 
third  week  in  March  there  was  a  change ;  a  low  wandering 
delirium  came  on ;  and  in  it  she  begged  constantly  for  food 
and  even  for  stimulants.  She  swallowed  eagerly  now ;  but 
it  was  too  late.  Wakening  for  an  instant  from  this  stupor  of 
intelligence,  she  saw  her  husband's  woe-worn  face,  and  caught 
the  sound  of  some  murmured  words  of  prayer  that  God  would 
spare  her.  "  Oh  !  "  she  whispered  forth,  "  I  am  not  going  to 
die,  am  I  ?  He  will  not  separate  us,  we  have  been  so 
happy." 

Early  on  Saturday  morning,  March  81st,  the  solemn 
tolling  of  Haworth  church-bell  spoke  forth  the  fact  of  her 
death  to  the  villagers  who  had  known  her  from  a  child,  and 
whose  hearts  shivered  within  them  as  they  thought  of  the 
two  sitting  desolate  and  a^ore  in  the  old  grey  house. 


K^R   DEATH    AND   FUNERAL.  267 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

I  HAVE  always  been  much  struck  with  a  passage  in  Mr.  Pors- 
ter's  Life  of  Goldsmith.  Speaking  of  the  scene  after  his 
death,  the  writer  says  : — 

"  The  staircase  of  Brick  Court  is  said  to  have  been  filled 
with  mourners,  the  reverse  of  domestic ;  women  without  a 
home,  without  domesticity  of  any  kind,  with  no  friend  but 
him  they  had  come  to  weep  for ;  outcasts  of  that  great,  soli- 
tary, wicked  city,  to  whom  he  had  never  forgotten  to  be  kind 
and  charitable." 

This  came  into  my  mind  when  I  heard  of  some  of  the  cir- 
cumstances attendant  on  Charlotte's  funeral. 

Few  beyond  that  circle  of  hills  knew  that  she,  whom  the 
nations  praised  far  off,  lay  dead  that  Easter  morning.  Of 
kith  and  kin  she  had  more  in  the  grave  to  which  she  was 
soon  to  be  borne,  than  among  the  living.  The  two  mourn- 
ers, stunned  with  their  great  grief,  desired  not  the  sympathy 
of  strangers.  One  member  out  of  most  of  the  families  in  the 
parish  was  bidden  to  the  funeral ;  and  it  became  an  act  of 
self-denial  in  many  a  poor  household  to  give  up  to  another 
the  privilege  of  paying  their  last  homage  to  her ;  and  those 
who  were  excluded  from  the  formal  train  of  mourners 
thronged  the  churchyard  and  church,  to  see  carried  forth, 
and  laid  beside  her  own  people,  her  whom,  not  many  months 
ago,  they  had  looked  at  as  a  pale  white  bride,  entering  on  a 
new  life  with  trembling  happy  hope. 


268  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 

Among  those  Inimble  friends  wlio  passionately  grieved 
over  the  dead,  was  a  village  girl  who  had  been  seduced  some 
little  time  before,  but  who  had  found  a  holy  sister  in  Char- 
lotte. She  had  .sheltered  her  with  her  help,  her  counsel,  hei 
strengthening  words ;  had  ministered  to  her  needs  in  hei 
time  of  trial.  Bitter,  bitter  was  the  grief  of  this  poor  young 
woman,  wh^n  she  heard  that  her  friend  was  sick  unto  death, 
and  deep  is  her  mourning  until  this  day.  A  blind  girl,  liv- 
ing some  four  miles  from  Haworth,  loved  Mrs.  Nicholls  so 
dearly  that,  with  many  cries  and  entreaties,  she  implored 
those  about  her  to  lead  her  along  the  roads,  and  over  the 
moor-paths,  that  she  might  hear  the  last  solemn  words, 
"  Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ;  in  sure  and 
certain  hope  of  the  resurrection  to  eternal  life,  through  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ." 

Such  were  ihe  mourners  over  Charlotte  Bronte's  grave. 

I  have  little  more  to  say.  If  my  readers  find  that  I  have 
not  said  enough,  I  have  said  too  much.  I  cannot  measure  or 
judge  of  such  a  character  as  hers.  I  cannot  map  out  vices? 
and  virtues,  and  debateable  land.  One  who  knew  her  long 
and  well, — the  "  Mayy  "  of  this  Life — writes  thus  of  her 
dead  friend : — 

"  She  thought  much  of  her  duty,  and  had  loftier  and 
clearer  notions  of  it  than  most  people,  and  held  fast  to  them 
with  more  success.  It  was  done,  it  seems  to  me,  with  much 
more  difl&culty  than  people  have  of  stronger  nerves,  and  bet- 
ter fortunes.  All  her  life  was  but  labour  and  pain ;  and  she 
never  threw  down  the  burden  for  the  sake  of  present  pleasure. 
I  don't  know  what  use  you  can  make  of  all  I  have  said.  I 
have  written  it  with  the  strong  desire  to  obtain  appreciation 
for  her.  Yet,  what  does  it  matter  ?  She  herself  appealed 
to  the  world's  judgment  for  her  use  of  some  of  the  faculties 


CONCLUSION.'  269 

she  liad, — ^not  the  best, — ^but  still  the  only  ones  she  could 
turn  to  strangers'  benefit.  They  heartily,  greedily  enjoyed 
the  fruits  of  her  labours,  and  then  found  out  she  was  much 
to  be  blamed  for  possessing  such  faculties.  Why  ask  for  a 
judgment  on  her  from  such  a  world  ?  " 

But  I  turn  from  the  critical,  unsympathetic  public, — 'in- 
clined to  judge  harshly  because  they  have  only  seen  superfi- 
cially and  not  thought  deeply.  I  appeal  to  that  larger  and 
more  solemn  public,  who  know  how  to  look  with  tender  hu- 
mility at  faults  and  errors  ;  how  to  admire  generously  extra- 
ordinary genius,  and  how  to  reverence  with  warm,  full  hearts 
all  noble  virtue.  To  that  Public  I  commit  the  memory  of 
Charlotte  Bronte 


THE   END. 


GEACE  AaUILAR'S  WOEKS. 


HOME  INFLUENCE. 
MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 
VALE  OE  CEDARS. 
WOMAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 


DAYS  OF  BRUCE. 
;VOMEN  OF  ISRAEL. 
HOME  SCENES  AND  HEART 
STUDIES. 


1  voly  12/no,  Illustrated,  price  $1,  with  a  Memoir  of  the  Author, 

HOiVIE  li^SFLUENCE, 

A     TALE     FOR     MOTHEBS     AND     DAUGHTERS. 

By  GRACE  AGUILAR. 


"  Grace  Aguilar  wrote  and  spoke  as  one  inspired ;  she  condensed  and 
Bplritaalized,  and  all  lier  thoui^lits  and  feelings  were  steeped  in  the  essence 
of  celestial  love  and  truth.  To  those  who  really  knew  Grace  Aguilar,  all 
eul02:iura  falls  short  of  her  deserts,  and  she  has  left  a  blank  in  her  particular 
walk  of  literature,  which  we  never  expect  to  see  filled  up." — Pilgrimages  to 
English  Shrines^  by  Mrs.  HalL 

"A  clever  and  interesting  tale,  corresponding  well  to  its  name,  illustrat- 
ing the  silent,  constant  influence  of  a  wise  and  atfectionate  parent  over 
characters  the  most  diverse."— C/im/Iia/i  Lady's  Magazine. 

"This  interesting  volume  unquestionably  contains  many  valuable  hints 
on  domestic  education,  much  powerful  writing,  and  a  moral  of  vast  impor 
tance.'''— Englishwoman's  Magazine. 

"It  is  very  pleasant,  after  reading  a  book,  to  speak  of  it  in  terms  of  high 
commendation.  The  tale  before  us  is  an  admirable  one,  and  is  executed 
with  taste  and  ability.  The  language  is  beautiful  and  appropriate ;  the  anal- 
ysis of  character  is  skilful  and  varied.  The  work  ought  to  be  in  the  hands 
of  all  who  are  interested  in  tlie  proper  training  of  the  youthful  mind."— Pa^- 
ladium. 

"In  reviewing  this  work,  we  hardly  know  what  words  in  the  English 
language  are  strong  enouirli  to  express  the  admiration  we  have  felt  iu  ita 
perusal." — Bucks  Chronicle. 

"  The  object  and  ei!»d  of  the  writings  of  Grace  Aguilar  were  to  improve 
the  heart,  and  to  lead  her  readers  to  the  consideration  of  higher  motives  and 
objects  than  this  world  can  ever  aftbrd." — BeWs  Weekly  Messenger. 

"  *  Home  Influence '  will  not  be  forgotten  by  any  who  have  perused  it.-'  — 
Critic. 

"A  well-known  and  valuable  tsile.''^— Gentleman's  Magazine. 

"  A  work  which  possesses  an  extraordinary  amount  of  influence  to  elevate 
the  mind  and  educate  the  heart,  by  showing  that  rectitude  and  virtue  con- 
duce no  less  to  material  prosperity,  and  worldly  comfort  and  happiness,  than 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  conscience,  the  approval  of  the  good,  and  the  bopj 
and  certainty  of  bliss  hereafter."— Zfer^s  County  Fress. 


Kew  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO 


GliACE  AGUILAR'S    WORKS. 


THE  SEQUEL  TO  HOME  INFLUENCE. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE. 

A   SEQUEL   TO 

^*'  Home  Influence^  a  Tale  for  Mothers  and  Daughter iiP 
By  GPwACE  AGXJII.AII. 

1  Vol.,  12mo.    Cloth.    $1.    With  Illustrations. 


*'  Grace  Aguilar  belonf^erl  to  the  school  of  which  Maria  Edfreworth  was 
the  foundress.    Thedesi<zn  of  the  hook  is  carried  out  forcibl}^  and  constantly, 

*  The  Home  Influence '  exercised  in  earlier  years  being  shown  in  its  active 
germination." — Atlas. 

'^  The  writings  of  Grace  A<?nilar  have  a  charm  inseparable  from  produc- 
tions in  which  feeling  is  combined  with  intellect ;  they  go  directly  to  the 
heart.  'Home  Influence,'  the  deservedly  popular  story  to  which  this  is  a 
sequel,  admirably  teaches  the  lesson  implied  in  its  name.  In  the  present 
tale  we  have  the  same  freshness,  earnestness,  and  zeal — the  same  spirit  of 
devotion,  and  love  of  virtue — the  same  enthusiasm  and  sincere  religion  which 
characterized  that  earlier  work.  We  heboid  the  mother  now  blessed  in  the 
love  of  good  and  affectionate  offspring,  who,  parents  themselves,  are,  after 
her  example,  training  their  children  in  the  way  of  rectitude  and  piety." — 
Morning  Chronicle. 

"  This  beautiful  story  was  completed  when  the  authoress  was  little  above 
the  age  of  nineteen,  yet  it  has  the  sober  sense  of  middle  age.  There  is  no 
age  nor  sex  that  will  not  profit  by  its  perusal,  and  it  will  afford  as  much 
pleasure  as  profit  to  the  reader."— C/rxi^ic. 

''The  same  kindly  spirit,  the  same  warm  charity  and  fervor  of  devotion 
Vvhich  breathes  in  every  line  of  that  admirable  book,  'Home  Influence,'  will 
be  found  adorning  and  inspiring  '  The  Mother's  Recompense.' " — Morning 
Advertiser. 

*'  The  good  which  she  (Grace  Aguilar)  has  effected  is  acknowledged  on 
all  hands,  and  it  cannot  be  doubted  but  that  the  appearance  of  this  volume 
will  increase  the  usefulness  of  one  who  may  yet  be  said  to  be  still  speaking 
to  the  heart  and  to  the  aflections  of  human  nature." — BelVs  Messenger. 

"  It  will  be  found  an  interesting  supplement,  not  only  to  the  book  to 
which  it  specially  relates,  but  to  all  the  writer's  other  works."— G^e/i^^ema/i's 
Magazine. 

"'The  Mother's  Recompense'  forms  a  fitting  close  to  its  predecessor, 

*  Home  Influence.'  The  results  of  maternal  care  are  fully  developed,  its  rich 
rewards  are  set  forth,  and  its  lesson  and  its  moral  are  powerfully  enforced." 
^Morning  Post. 

"  We  heartily  commend  this  volume;  a  better  or  more  useful  present  to 
»  youthful  friend  or  a  young  wife  could  not  well  be  selected."— //^r^5  CowUg 


!few  York:  D.  APPLETOK  &  CO. 


GRACE  AGUILAR'8    WORKS. 


THE  DAYS   OF  BRUCE. 

A  Storij  from  Scottish  History, 

BY    GRACE    AGUILAR. 

With  Illustrations.     2  vols.,  ISmo.    Cloth,  $2.00. 

*'We  have  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  the  interest  it  awakens  in 
flifferent  classes  of  readers,  and  in  no  instance  has  it  failed  to  rivet  attention, 
Rnd  to  induce  a  hic^h  estimate  of  the  author's  powers.  Miss  Aguilar  was 
evidently  well  read  in  the  times  of  Bruce.  It  is  long  since  we  met  with  a 
work  which  combines  so  happily  the  best  qualities  of  historical  fiction."— 
Eclectic  Review. 

*'The  life  of  the  hero  of  Bannockbum  has  furnished  matter  for  innumer- 
able tales  in  prose  and  verse,  but  we  have  met  with  no  records  of  that 
famous  era  so  instructive  as  'The  Days  of  Bruce.'  " — Britannia. 

'"The  Days  of  Bruce'  was  written  when,  in  the  vigor  of  intellectual 
strength,  Grace  Aguilar  was  planning  many  things,  and  all  for  good  ;  it  was, 
we  know,  her  especial  favorite;  it  is  full  of  deep  interest."— Jfr^.  8.  C.  Hall^ 
in  Sharpe''s  Magazine. 

"It  is  a  volume  which  may  be  considered  as  solid  history,  but  is  never- 
theless entertaining  as  the  most  charming  novel  ever  produced  by  genius. 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  name  as  an  author  would  not  have  been  dis^aced  by  it 
had  it  appeared  on  the  title-page  instead  of  Grace  AguMfxr.''— Bucks  Chronicle. 

"This  deeply-interesting  romance— a  composition  of  great  eloquence, 
written  with  practised  polish  and  enthusiastic  energy.  We  are  not  surprised 
at  the  eloquence,  the  warmth,  and  the  pathos  with  which  Grace  Aguilar 
l)aints  love-passages;  but  we  are  astonished  at  the  fire  and  accuracy  with 
which  she  depicts  scenes  of  daring  and  of  death." — Observer. 

"  The  tale  is  well  told,  the  interest  warmly  sustained  throughout,  and  the 
delineation  of  female  character  is  marked  by  a  delicate  sense  of  moral  beau- 
ty. It  is  a  work  that  may  be  confided  to  the  hands  of  a  daughter  by  her 
parent."— Cowr^  Journal. 

"  Every  one  who  knows  the  works  of  this  lamented  author,  must  observe 
that  she  rises  with  her  subjects.  In  '  The  Days  of  Bruce'  she  has  thrown 
herself  into  the  rugged  life  of  the  fourteenth  century,  and  has  depicted  the 
serai-civilization  of  the  period  in  a  manner  that  is  quite  marvellous  in  a 
young  woman.  Grace  Aguilar  always  excelled  in  her  delineations  of  female 
character,  while  the  skill  she  evinces  in  the  illustration  of  the  historical 
personages,  and  her  individualization  of  the  imaginary  ones,  might  at  once 
entitle  her  to  a  birthplace  among  historical  novelists." — Ladies''  Companion. 

"  Her  pen  was  ever  devoted  to  the  cause  of  virtue ;  and  her  various  pub- 
lications, exhibiting  the  beauties  and  enforcing  the  practice  of  the  'tender 
charities '  of  domestic  life,  have,  we  doubt  not,  recommended  themselves  to 
the  hearts  of  numbers  of  her  countrywomen.  The  work  before  us  diiTens 
from  the  former  publications  of  its  author,  inasmuch  as  it  is  in  fact  an  his- 
torical romance,  for  thig  species  of  writing  the  high  feeling  of  Grace  Aguilar 
peculiarly  fitted  her;  many  of  the  sceues  are  very  highly  wrought;  and 
while  it  will  fix  in  the  reader's  mind  a  truthful  idea  of  the  history  and  styla 
of  manners  of  '  The  Days  of  Bruce,'  it  will  also  impress  upon  him  a  strong 
sense  of  the  ability  and  noble  cast  of  thought  which  distinguished  its 
*Araented  aiilhor.''^— Englishwoman's  Magazine. 

New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO. 


GRACE  AGUILARS    WORKS. 


"  We  look  npon  '  The  Days  of  Bnice'  as  an  elegantly- written  and  inter 
estinc:  romance,  and  place  it  by  the  side  of  Miss  Porter's  '  Scottish  Chiefs.'  " 
—  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

"  A  very  pleasing  and  successful  attempt  to  combine  ideal  delineation  of 
character  with  the  records  of  history.  Very  beautiful  and  very  true  are  the 
portraits  of  the  female  mind  and  heart  which  Grace  Aguilar  knew  how  to 
draw.  This  is  the  chief  charm  of  all  her  writings,  and  in  '  The  Days  of 
Bruce'  the  reader  will  have  the  pleasure  of  viewing  this  skilful  portraiture 
lu  the  characters  of  Isoiine  and  Agnes,  and  Isabella  of  Buchan." — Literary 
Gazette, 

*'  What  a  fertile  mind  was  that  of  Grace  Aguilar !  What  an  early  develop- 
ment of  reflection,  of  feeling,  of  taste,  of  power  of  invention,  of  true  and 
earnest  eloquence  1  'The  Days  of  Bruce'  is  a  composition  of  her  early 
youth,  but  full  of  beauty.  Grace  Aguilar  knew  the  female  heart  better  than 
any  writer  of  our  day,  and  in  every  fiction  from  her  pen  we  trace  the  same 
masterly  analysis  and  development  of  the  motives  and  feelings  of  woman's 
nature.  '  The  Days  of  Bruce  '  possesses  also  the  attractions  of  an  extremely 
interesting  story,  that  absorbs  the  attention,  and  never  suffers  it  to  flag  till 
the  last  paire  is  closed,  and  then  the  reader  will  lay  down  the  volume  with 
vQgiQ.V— Critic. 


E  SCENES  Hi  HEART  STUDIES, 


By   GRACE    AG-UILAR. 

WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS. 
One  volume,    ISmo.      Cloth.      Price,  $1.00. 


The  Perez  Family. 

The    Stone-Cutter's    Boy    of 

POSSAGNO. 

Amete  and  Yafeh. 

The  Fugitive. 

The  Edict;  a  Tale  of  1492. 

The  Escape  ;  a  Tale  of  1755. 

Red  Rose  Villa. 

GoNZALYo's  Daughter. 

The  Authoress. 

The  Triumph 


Helon. 
Lucy. 

The  Spirit's  Entreaty. 
Idalie. 

Lady  Gresham's  Fete. 
The  Group  of  Sculpture. 
The  Spirit  of  Night. 
Recollections  of  a  Rambler, 
Cast    thy    Breap    upon    the 
Waters. 

OF   LOYE. 


New  York  :  D.  APPLETOH  &  CO. 


GRACE  AGUILARS    WORKS, 


THE  WOMEN  OF  ISRAEL ; 

Or,  Chakacters  and  Sketches  from  the  Holy  Scriptuees,  illtjstiia- 

TivE  OF  the  past  History,  present  Duties,  and  future 

Destiny  of  Hebrew  Females,  as  based  on 

THE  Word  of  God. 

By   GRACE    AGUILAR. 
Tivo  volumes,  12nio,    I^rice  $2.00, 


PRIITCIPAL   CONTENTS. 

FmST  PERIOD— WIVES  OF  THE  PATRIARCHS. 
Eve.— Sarah.— Rebekah.—Leali  and  Rachel. 

SECOND  PERIOD— THE  EXODUS  AND  THE  LAW. 

Egyptian  Captivity,  and  Jochehed. — The  Exodus — Mothers  of  Israel. — Laws 
>or  Wives  in  Israel.— Laws  for  Widows  and  Daughters  in  Israel.— Maid- 
servants in  Israel,  and  other  Laws. 

THIRD  PERIOD— BETWEEN  THE  DELIVERY  OF  THE  LAW  AND 
THE  MONARCHY. 

Miriam.— Tabernacle  Workers— Caleb's  Daughter.— Deborah.— Wife  of  Ma 
noah  .—Naomi. — Hannah. 

FOURTH  PERIOD— THE  MONARCHY. 

Michal. — Abigail. — ^Wise  Women  of  Tekoah. — ^Woman  of  Abel. — Rispah.— 
Prophet's  Widow.— The  Shunamite.— Little  Israelitish  Maid.— Huldah. 

FIFTH  PERIOD— BABYLONIAN  CAPTIVITY. 

The  Captivity.— Review  of  Book  of  Ezra. — Suggestions  as  to  the  identity 
of  the  Ahasuerus  of  Scripture. — ^Esther. — Review  of  Events  narrated  in 
Ezra  and  Nehemiah. 

SIXTH  PERIOD— CONTINUANCE  OF  THE  SECOND  TEMPLE. 
Review  of  Jewish  History,  from  the  Return  from  Babylon  to  the  Appeal 
of  Hycanus  and  Aristobulus  to  Pompey. — Jewish  History  from  the  "^Ap- 
peal to  Pompey  to  the  Death  of  Herod.— Jewish  History  from  the  Death 
of  Herod  to  the  V/ar,~The  Martyr  Mother.— Alexandra.— Mariamne.-- 
Salome. — Helena. — Berenice. 

SEVENTH   PERIOD— WOMEN  OF  ISRAEL   IN  THE   PRESENT  i\S 

INFLUENCED  BY  THE  PAST. 
The  War  and  Dispersion.— Thoughts  on  the  Talmud.— Talmudic  Ordinanccg 
and  Tales.— Effects  of  Dispersion  and  Persecution.— General  Remarks. 


"A  work  that  is  sufficient  of  itself  to  create  and  crown  a  reputation." 
Pilgrimages  to  English  Shrines,  hy  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall. 


ITew  York:  D.  APPLETON  ^  CO. 


GRACE   AGUILAR'S    WORKS. 


WOMAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 

A    STORY    OF    DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

By  GEAOE  AGUILAS. 

With  Illustrations,     One  voluniCf  12nio.     Cloth,    JPrice,  $1.00, 

"  To  show  Tis  how  divine  a  thing 
A  woman  may  be  made."— Wohdswokth. 

'*This  story  ilhistrates,  with  feeling  and  power,  that  beneficial  influence 
which  women  exercise,  in  their  own  quiet  way,  over  characters  and  events 
in  our  every-day  Mia.''— Britannia. 

"The  book  is  one  of  more  than  ordinary  interest  in  various  ways,  and 
presents  an  admirable  conception  of  the  depths  and  sincerity  of  female 
friendship,  as  exhibited  in  England  by  Englishwomen."— Tf^<?A;/y  Chronicle. 

''  We  began  to  read  the  volume  late  in  the  evening ;  and,  although  it  con- 
sists of  about  400 pages,  our  eyes  could  not  close  in  sleep  until  we  had  read 
the  whole.  This  excellent  book  should  find  a  place  on  every  drawing-room 
table — nay,  in  every  library  in  the  kingdom." — Bucks  Chronicle. 

*'  We  congratulate  Miss  Aguilar  on  the  spirit,  motive,  and  composition 
of  this  story.  Her  aims  are  eminently  moral,  and  her  cause  comes  recom- 
mended by  the  most  beautiful  associaticms.  These,  connected  with  the  skill 
here  evinced  in  their  development,  insure  the  success  of  her  labors." — 
Illustrated  News. 

"As  a  writer  of  remarkable  grace  and  delicacy,  phe  devoted  herself  to 
the  inculcation  of  the  virtues,  more  especially  those  which  are  the  peculiar 
charm  of  women." — Critic. 

"  It  is  a  book  for  all  classes  of  readers;  and  we  have  no  hesitation  in 
saying,  that  it  only  requires  to  be  generally  known  to  become  exceedingly 
popular.  In  our  estimation  it  has  far  more  attractions  than  Miss  Burney's 
celebrated,  but  overestimated,  novel  of  'Cecilia.'  " — Herts  County  Press,  " 

"  This  very  interesting  and  agreeable  tale  has  remained  longer  without 
notice  on  our  part  than  we  could  have  desired;  but  we  would  now  endeavor 
to  make  amends  for  the  delay,  by  assuring  our  readers  that  it  is  a  most  ably- 
written  publication,  full  of  the  nicest  points  of  information  and  utility  that 
could  have  been  by  any  possibility  constructed  ;  and,  as  a  proof  of  its  value^ 
it  may  suffice  to  say,  that  it  has  been  taken  from  our  table  again  and  again 
by  several  individuals,  from  the  recommendation  of  those  who  had  already 
perused  it,  and  so  prevented  our  giving  an  earlier  attention  to  its  manifold 
claims  for  the  favorable  criticism.  It  is  peculiarly  adapted  for  the  young, 
and  wherever  it  goes  will  be  received  with  gratification,  and  command  very 
extensive  approbation. "--^e^^^  Weekly  Messenger. 

"This  is  a  handsome  volume:  just  such  a  book  as  we  would  expect  to 
find  among  the  volumes  composing  a  lady's  library.  Its  interior  corrc"- 
Fponds  with  its  exterior  ;  it  is  a  most  fascinating  tale,  full  of  noble  and  just 
lecnliineuts."— /^a^/ac^Ewm. 


l^cw  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO. 


